American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E1 - Murder House Revisited
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 1: Murder House Revisited (Welcome Home). Picks up seven years after the Harmons died, with flashbacks to enlighten & horrify. The ghosts rule the house now that there are no living owners - or is it the house that rules them? And what of Constance & her born-of-the-dead grandson? Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Welcome Home

_If you've Followed this story in hopes of updates, please check my **Profile **for other Episodes. I post each Episode as its own story. This is just Episode 1 of the series.  
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_!.!.! **Episode 8** is starting soon. !.!.! It and 9 are a 2-parter that spans October 2018, when **Tate returns to Westfield High** for the first time since the shootings. _

_ This is the only update to this Episode so if you've read this one before, there isn't anything new beyond this note.  
_

* * *

**Murder House Revisited  
(Welcome Home)**

**Present day - 2018**

Violet stared at Chad in disbelief.

The dark-haired man was leaning on the kitchen island where he had a bottle of red wine out. Violet had grown accustomed to his visits: He and her parents had gotten downright neighborly over the years. He would even babysit sometimes, helping care for the newborn the Harmons had lost, in life, to the house. But while Violet had gotten used to Chad's endless love of design and his outspoken intolerances, she wasn't used to discussing Tate with him.

"Look," Chad said, thick brows arching. "I'm not telling you to sleep with him. All I'm saying is that he's gone through some interesting changes over the past five years that you might want to see. I'll admit I didn't think it was possible. But Patrick, your father, and I make quite the super-team."

Violet picked up a cigarette and lit it. She pulled a hard puff then shook her head. "I don't believe it." She exhaled smoke and peered through the haze at Chad. "Whatever he's said to you, whatever you think you've seen," she shook her head again. "It isn't real. It's not really him. It's an act."

Chad lifted his wineglass, fingers curled under the bowl in a way that doubled as a permissive gesture. "You know best, of course."

"Don't try that reverse-psychology shit with me," warned Violet. "It doesn't work for my dad. It's not going to work for you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chad said with a touch of disdain. "I'm only speaking from previous years of experience and from the standpoint of someone Tate actually murdered."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Violet challenged.

Chad fluttered his free hand at her. "No need to get pissy, Goth-zilla. What I'm saying is: If two people he violently murdered can work through their issues with him, then maybe - just maybe - your situation isn't as terminal as you think."

"No." Despite her firm tone, Violet's curiosity was piqued. She hadn't seen Tate in over seven years though she had thought about him more than she would admit. She loved him and missed him and she found the idea of seeing him, changed or not, far too compelling. "No. Not a chance."

"Suit yourself," said Chad. He downed the last of his wine and set the glass in the sink. "Let me know if you change your mind."

He left the room. Violet crushed her cigarette out and shoved the ashtray away forcefully. She wanted to see Tate. She didn't like that she wanted to but she did. Why Chad cared whether she did made no sense. If anything he should hate Tate more than most of the ghosts, with the exception of Patrick. And what did Patrick think? Chad had implied he felt the same way but it was never safe to assume anything with those two.

Violet sighed and raked her fingers through her long hair. Why did being dead have to be so complicated?

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░  
**

**...**

Violet found her dad in his office. He was playing around with one of the laptops at his desk when she knocked from the open doorway.

He smiled warmly. "Come on in, sweetie."

She moved over to his desk. "Hey, dad. What're you up to?"

"Just reading the news."

"Anything exciting?"

He shook his head. "Just the same old stuff: Celebrity DUIs, politics and global warming."

She obliged him a chuckle but she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "I saw Chad."

"Oh?"

Something about the tone of that simple response struck Violet as suspicious. "Yeah. He said I should go see Tate."

"Did he?" Her father was impossible to read, which was even more suspicious. He was only guarded when he had something to hide.

"Yeah." Violet folded her arms, posture shifting to stubborn. "Did you put him up to it?"

"Of course I didn't put him up to it," Ben denied, mildly affronted.

Violet stared at him.

"I didn't! Why would I?"

"Chad said you and he and Patrick made a 'super-team'," said Violet. "Like you've all been working on a car or something." She shifted her weight, studying her dad. "Why're you even talking to him?"

The question edged too close to things Ben had no intention of discussing with his daughter, especially when she had her hackles up. "It's been seven years. A lot's changed."

"You're dead because of him," Violet flared.

"I'm dead because of what I did," Ben countered calmly. The angrier Violet got the more in control he felt. "And because of what the people who killed me did."

Violet found his calm demeanor infuriating. "He raped your wife!" That barb stung, evident in her father's wince. She regretted the mean blow but she didn't take it back.

"That's something we've been working through," Ben said tightly. It was the understatement of the decade.

"Working through?" Violet echoed incredulously. "What, is mom in on this, too?"

Ben felt that moment of control slipping away. "No. Not yet."

Violet was done listening. "You're nuts."

He took a step toward her but she ducked out the door and literally vanished. Ben sighed and sank into a chair near his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose. That had gone worse than he had feared.

**...**

**2015**

"Michael, this is Father Jeremiah."

The four year old looked up, up, up the long legs of the man Mama Constance introduced him to. The stranger wore black trousers and a black shirt, tucked in. He looked like a living shadow to the boy. The priest's face was forgettable to Michael except those sharp, dark eyes; eyes like a crow's.

"Hello, Michael," smiled Father Jeremiah. He crouched down to get on eye level with the child.

Constance hovered, uncertainty tinting her hostess smile. "Father Jeremiah is goin' to be joinin' our little family. He'll be your teacher."

Michael shifted his attention from the priest to Mama Constance and back again. "Why's your name 'Father'? You're not my daddy."

Father Jeremiah laughed. It was a warm, rich laugh; not mocking. "'Father' is what they call priests who have done very well at their jobs. It's the Church's way of letting you know that I'm a good teacher."

"Are you going to take me to school?"

"Your school will be here," said Jeremiah, motioning to the home around them.

Michael was puzzled. This was not how television said school should be. "Why?"

Constance shifted, trying not to let her growing nervousness show. She wasn't sure how Michael would take to the priest and she worried that she'd end up with another body to dispose of. But after Billie Dean had failed her in the advice department, other sources had pointed her to Father Jeremiah. If he could rein Michael in, it would be justify any amount of "Hail Mary"s the priest demanded of her.

It wasn't that Michael was a naughty child. He was no more mischievous than other boys his age. It was his lack of conscience and predisposition for casual violence that made him impossible for Constance to manage alone. Not that he was ever violent toward her. On the contrary, he was very loving. He was so much like Tate at that age that, in her alcohol-fueled moments of blind rage, she tended to forget who and what Michael was. And he, like Tate - like all of her children - cowered before that rage. But he was dangerous. She lit a cigarette and turned away from the man and boy.

"You're very special, Michael," Jeremiah said sincerely. "You need something more than a normal, boring school can provide. You need a teacher all your own to help you reach your full potential."

Michael didn't understand some of the big words but he got the gist of what was said. "Are you going to sleep in Mama Constance's room?" It was a valid question. He knew several men already had.

The priest laughed his warm laugh again while Constance swept back into the conversation. "Oh, no, sweetheart," she crooned. "Father Jeremiah's going to stay in-" She choked up and couldn't call it Addie's old room. Even though the girl had been run down in the street four years before, the pain was still fresh. "The spare bedroom down the hall."

Michael tilted his head, regarding the priest for a thoughtful moment. "Okay."

Relief made Constance's smile radiant. "Father Jeremiah'll be movin' in tomorrow. I thought we could have a nice supper together then."

"With chocolate ice cream?" asked Michael brightly.

"I'll bring some personally," Father Jeremiah promised.

...

The following week was enjoyable. Father Jeremiah settled into the spare room and Michael got to discover how much fun it could be to have a male role model. Mama Constance was more at ease than she'd ever been, which meant an abundance of cookies and kisses. At the end of the week Mama Constance said goodbye and, fortified with three suitcases, she left the boys for a much-needed rest in the form of a weekend at the spa.

It was as much Father Jeremiah's idea as it was Constance's. She wasn't sure it was a good idea but she had removed everything sharp from the house after the nanny incident and Father Jeremiah had her cellular number. The spa was in-town, only a few minutes away, and she would call regularly while away just to be certain nothing unfortunate happened. It was enough for Constance to convince herself to get into the taxi. She didn't look back as the car carried her away.

It was the first time Michael had been left with someone else since nanny died. He liked Father Jeremiah and for the first few hours things went as they had over the past week. But when it came time for bed Michael wanted to stay up late since it was a special time. Father Jeremiah thought they should stick to bedtime as usual. The disagreement ended with Jeremiah physically moving a howling Michael into the boy's bedroom. He set the hollering child down in the middle of the room.

"Put your pajamas on," Father Jeremiah said. His deep voice cut through the tantrum. "I'll be back in a few minutes so be ready to brush your teeth."

Jeremiah left the room and shut the door. Michael's scream turned to one of rage. He threw himself at the closed door, hitting it hard enough to shake it in its frame. He tried to yank the door open but Jeremiah held the knob. Thwarted, the boy assaulted the door, snarling like an animal. He was stronger than any child his age.

"I can outwait you, Michael." Father Jeremiah didn't let go of the doorknob.

The boy responded by throwing a lamp against the shut door. It shattered, making a huge mess that Michael ignored. He waited a moment to see if Father Jeremiah would open the door and when he didn't it enraged the child all over again. He threw several things next: Toys, a chair, the laundry basket, his pillow, shoes. He threw everything he could but the door remained shut. Eventually he tired and sat down on his bed to sulk. A few minutes later Father Jeremiah entered.

"You're not in your pajamas," Jeremiah observed. The mess around the door could have been invisible for all the attention he paid it.

"I'm not going to bed!" Michael folded his arms stubbornly.

"Looks to me like you're already in bed."

Michael launched himself at the priest. Father Jeremiah caught him and held him at arm's distance. Even winded the child was almost as strong as a grown man. It was no challenge for Jeremiah but a normal guy would have had his hands full.

"The only thing you're going to get by behaving this way," said Jeremiah patiently as Michael struggled to kick and claw at him. "Is trouble. Settle down and put on your pajamas." He knew he'd be ignored but he was obliged to warn the child.

"I hate you!" Michael shrieked. His angry tears made it hard to see. "You stupid man!"

The struggle lasted several minutes until Michael exhausted himself. Once he stopped pressing the attack Jeremiah released him. The boy sat down on the floor, panting and refusing to make eye contact. The priest turned away to fetch some pajamas from the dresser. He'd just put his hand on the drawer when he had to turn back around and catch hold of Michael's arm. The boy had grabbed a jagged chunk of ceramic from the broken lamp and was going to use it as a weapon. Jeremiah sent a jolt of negative energy through the child's arm. It had an effect similar to a Taser: Michael went limp, stunned but conscious. The piece of ceramic fell harmlessly to the floor.

Jeremiah exhaled roughly and frowned. He let Michael sag to the floor and squatted beside him, turning the child's face so their eyes met. "I know you can hear me so listen well. You cannot kill me. Trying to will only piss me off. "

He scooped up the little boy and dropped him on the bed. He proceeded to change Michael from his day clothes into his footie pajamas. By the time he was finished the boy was beginning to regain control over his tingling limbs. Jeremiah plucked the chair from the mess and hauled it over to the bed. He sat down, elbows on his knees, and watched Michael come around.

"You'll recover soon," he said. "But I hope you remember this moment. You have a destiny, Michael, and you will lose it if you don't learn to control yourself. I've been sent here to make sure that you do."

Frustrated, tired, and furious, Michael found the ability to cry. He got no sympathy from the man sitting beside him.

"I'm serious," said Father Jeremiah sternly. "If you keep trying to hurt others, there are people who will put you down. They'll lock you away where you'll never touch another person. They'll run tests on you. Cut you open and weigh your insides to see how different you are from 'normal'."

Michael swallowed, eyes widening. "I wanna go to sleep," he croaked, throat tight.

"You will," Father Jeremiah said. "But first hear what I'm telling you." He got really close to Michael then, almost nose to nose. "You _will_ learn to obey me. Until then life will be very, very difficult for you." He stood and moved to the door, pausing to say: "Finish getting ready. When I return in ten minutes you'd better be in bed. Tomorrow you're going to clean up this mess you made."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I could tell you about myself but I prefer to keep you guessing.

When American Horror Story season 1 ended, I expected the 2nd season to pick up the story where the first left off. Even though I liked Asylum, I still wanted - needed - to know what happened to the ghosts in Murder House. So I turned on my imagination and wound up with enough material to write season 1-point-5.

This story is written in the same style as the show and it features pretty much every character you'd expect to see on the show, at some point or other. I've thrown in a few new faces as needed; I hope you'll find them a good fit for the genre.

I've rated this story M for horror and general squickiness that you'll see unfold over the next chapters and episodes.

If you're into music to read by, my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 is in my profile. It's the stuff I listen to while I'm writing AHS - the soundtrack to the show that's playing in my head.


	2. Chapter 2 - Sessions

**Present day - 2018**

"Ben?"

The door wasn't wide open but it wasn't completely shut either so Vivien skipped knocking. "Violet said you and Chad wanted her to see Tate?"

He was still in the chair near his desk but his posture straightened when she entered the room. "I didn't tell her that," said Ben.

"But Chad did?"

He spread his hands in a 'search me if I'm lying' gesture. "That's what she told me. I wasn't there when they had that conversation."

Vivien wanted to accept that at face value but she knew her husband. "Ben. What's going on?"

"Well," he said carefully. "You know they - Chad and Patrick - you know their situation with Tate."

"Yes," said Vivien. "What has that got to do with Violet?"

"She still doesn't know."

"Right." Vivien was nodding but there was steel in her eyes. Her mouth hardened around the edges. "And there's no reason to change that."

"Except that they want to."

"What they want doesn't matter to me. And it doesn't matter to her," said Vivien. "If they've chosen to- to make some kind of peace with what he did to them, good for them. But they can just keep it to their part of the house."

Ben stifled a sigh behind the act of rubbing his chin. "Don't you think Violet should make that call for herself?"

"She already did, Ben, when she shut him out for good." Vivien folded her arms tightly under her breasts. "Why can't you do the same?"

"It's not that easy for me," he admitted. "This house is too small to blind myself to what's happening in it. He _is_ still in this house. That isn't going to change."

Vivien stared at him. "So what if it isn't? I know you've been getting your mental rocks off playing shrink to that monster but I'm not going to let him around our daughter again."

Ben stiffened, stung. "I'm trying to help him."

"Help _him_?" Vivien wasn't normally disposed toward hysterics but her rage and indignation were too raw to contain. "You're trying to help YOU!" She was bordering on complete loss of control. She had to force herself to pull back. She took a deep breath and said in a shaky voice: "You think he's your chance at redemption. You always have. He may as well _be_ you."

Ben pushed himself out of the chair, brows knitting. "What? I don't-"

While he floundered Vivien found her clarity growing. She could see the vile joke the house had played on her the night Rubber Man had appeared in her bedroom. It made such bizarre sense that she began to laugh, surprising Ben into silence. She laughed till she found herself on the verge of sobs.

"Vivien," Ben started but she waved away whatever he was going to say.

"Do what you want with your own time," she said. The laughter was gone, leaving ice in its place. "But leave your family out of it, Ben. I mean it."

She turned and left the room.

...

A ghost baby didn't really need a bath but the activity soothed the often-fussy infant Joshua and, at the moment, it soothed Vivien. The baby bath was an antique that fit in the center of the kitchen island. The baby nestled in it was calm as his mother gently sponged bubbles over his tiny fingers. When he curled them, Moira cooed, in love all over again with the tiny soul.

"He's so perfect," she murmured, not for the first time. "I was never around babies when I was alive. Are they all so wonderful?"

"Mine was," Vivien said without hesitation. It was only after that she actually thought about the question. "Well, Violet had colic. But she grew out of that. She had nothing on Joshua."

The bath continued in silence for a few minutes. Then Moira wondered: "Do you suppose he'll grow?"

The maid didn't mean any harm but the question still pricked Vivien's maternal feelings. She'd wondered that herself; too many times. "It doesn't look like he will," she said ruefully.

Moira realized she'd spoken out of turn and, abashed, tried to make amends. "Well, he'll always have you to care for him. And Ben and Violet."

"And you," reminded Vivien.

Moira smiled. "Of course."

Outside thunder rumbled. Vivien glanced to the window and saw the sky had darkened considerably. "Oh. It's raining."

Moira moved to the window and looked out. She was about to remark on the flickers of lightning she saw chasing about in the dark sky when they convalesced into a bolt that flashed directly overheard. There was a very loud clap of thunder, like a wooden beam breaking in two, and the whole house trembled. The baby yowled in fear.

"Ohh," soothed Vivien. "There, there. It's just noise. Poor baby. Let's get you out."

Moira forgot about the storm and scooped up a fluffy towel to receive the wet, squalling infant Vivien plucked from the tub. Once he was snugly swaddled she handed him to his mother. His screams subsided to fussy whines.

"Let's go to your nursery," Vivien said to the baby as she put him on her shoulder. "And get you into some warm PJs. Moira? Would you please wind up the music box when we get there?"

"Of course."

They'd resolved themselves as equals after Vivien's death but Moira loved helping with the baby. Vivien always asked for assistance; she never dictated or demanded. And Joshua genuinely seemed to like Moira. The redheaded ghost maid would never have children of her own but she enjoyed the vicarious taste of what it might have been like. That was worth a million turns of the music box knob.

**...**

**2013**

"It's just brutal," Chad complained.

He and Ben were in the office, Ben in his rolling office chair and Chad across the coffee table from him, seated on the couch. Chad had sought out the other man specifically, both to unload and to seek some assistance from the dead therapist. Dr. Harmon had become even more popular after his murder as a shrink to the ghosts than he'd been as a shrink to the stars. It didn't pay as well but it gave him something to do and, most importantly, it made him feel needed. It also netted him the most gossip in the house.

"Ever since they entered this... agreement? Whatever you'd call it," said Chad. "I'd say they fight constantly but it's not much of a fight. Patrick yells and hits and Tate takes it. I honestly didn't think Tate would hold to his end. I mean, who would want to be at someone's beck and call just to be pounded on?" He shook his head in mild awe then arched a brow at the doctor. "I thought at first it might be good for Patrick, you know, to get out his aggressions. But now I'm not so sure."

"Why's that?" prompted Ben.

Chad thought a moment. "I think it's doing something to him. It's hard to say. He just seems more… dark."

"Tate?"

"Patrick." Chad pursed his lips briefly. "Even before he was murdered he was..." He looked at the ceiling, searching for the right words. "His tastes were starting to run toward the grim. But not like this. At least I don't think so."

Ben noted that on his pad, sensing a personality puzzle piece. "How are things going between you and Patrick?"

"Confusing as ever." Chad sighed. "It's almost like he has a split personality. I can tell part of him wants what we used to have together but then there's a whole other side that wants to be on his own. For instance, he has his own room. But he insists on it being the one that's connected to mine by that bathroom door. He wants me close but wants control over how close." He smiled tightly. "Just an outward metaphor for our whole relationship."

"Are you fighting still?"

Chad shook his head. "It took nearly a year but we've pretty much sorted through what can be."

Ben peered at Chad. "What's not sorted out?"

Chad peered back. "We're dead and stuck here. Neither of those issues is going to resolve. If we had a choice I don't think we'd be staying together at all. But it's difficult to know when neither of us actually has that choice. So. We've decided to work with what we have."

"But with all of the violence between him and Tate..." Ben prompted, thinking out loud.

"It's really difficult to be around them," Chad finished. "Especially when there's killing." He shuddered. "I don't understand how killing a ghost makes anyone feel better. But have you noticed how many of them seem to like it?" He tipped his head at the therapist. "You've done it a couple of times now, too. Do you like it?"

Ben retreated behind a benign smile. "I've only done it to scare off living families for their own good."

"So it didn't give you a cathartic rush to put a bullet in your wife's brain?" Chad said with malicious glee.

"No." Ben didn't like the direction the conversation was taking so he rerouted the subject. "So Patrick's killed Tate a few times?"

Chad nodded and shifted on the sofa. "Not at first but I know he's done it more than once. We don't talk about it. I've just... seen things." He shook his head, uncomfortable thinking about it.

Ben put his pen and pad down in his lap. "Does this agreement have a time limit?"

"No," Chad said. "No, actually that was part of the last situation I walked in on. Basically what happened was..."

... ...

"You're never going to let me go, are you?" Tate's words were a demand made through tears.

"You're mine till I decide to forgive you," Patrick asserted. "It's what _you_ volunteered! Remember?"

"But it's never going to be enough! You're never going to-"

Something snapped in Patrick. "You stole my life!" he roared. "I get yours! You owe me whatever I want from you until I say I'm done!"

Tate shrank into himself, retreating as the larger man bore down on him. Pat grabbed Tate by the throat with both hands and hauled him over to the sideboard. He shoved the teen up close to the antique mirror that hung above the surface.

"Look!" Patrick was no longer shouting. His tone was a low and menacing growl. He gave Tate a vicious shake. "What do you see?"

Tate didn't want to look at the mess in the reflection but he had little choice. "I- I see... us."

"Uh-uh," Patrick said. "That's what _you_ did to us!" Tate tried to look away but Pat grabbed his hair and shoved his face closer to the glass. "Is this what you wanted to be when you grew up? Is it?!"

When Tate didn't answer fast enough Patrick slammed his head into the mirror. The glass cracked from the impact. Pat shoved the boy roughly to the floor.

... ...

"I left at that point," said Chad. "It's strange. In the beginning I think I was just as mad at Tate was Patrick as. I even let Pat talk me into confronting him together, once. But I just don't have the stomach for it." He hesitated then added: "If you want to know the truth I'm starting to feel a bit sorry for Tate."

"Why do you feel sorry for him?" asked Ben, genuinely curious.

Chad shrugged in a twitchy manner that reflected his inner conflict on the subject. "I don't know," he dodged. "I shouldn't. What he did to us was reprehensible. But… he doesn't defend himself. Ever. I know we heal up and death is only temporary but it still hurts. It just seems like overkill. Really."

"Why do you care how he treats the guy who murdered you both?"

"I don't know," Chad repeated irritably. "Maybe it's because I see the same sort of split in him that I've been seeing in Patrick. I see this... boy next door being puppeted by a sociopathic killer."

"You don't think Tate's acting the boy-next-door part?" Ben asked.

Chad looked Ben up and down before answering. "No. I don't." He sat up straighter, ready to offer his layman's diagnosis. "I think he's weak. Possibly the weakest-willed person I've ever seen. Growing up in this place, with _that_ woman as a mother, sucked the soul out of him long before he died, I'm sure."

"Just living with Constance would do that," Ben agreed with a smile, letting his professional demeanor lapse momentarily.

Chad found the statement too close to the truth to find humor in it but he favored Ben a patronizing smile. "I don't think it's any coincidence that she's outlived her children." He sank back into the couch cushions. "Anyway, I'm not sure what to do. I can't tell Patrick to back off. He's got a right to be as angry as he wants to be. And Tate believes that if he earns everyone's forgiveness, your daughter will want to see him again. I don't know why he wants her to. Trying to keep the attention of someone who doesn't want to give it to you feels like shit."

Ben frowned. Chad mistook the reaction. "Oh! I'm sorry," he said, one hand coming up to rest on his chest. "I don't mean to slight Violet. She's a wonderful girl."

"No offense taken," Ben assured. "You said he wanted to earn everyone's forgiveness. Did he say that to you?"

"Not in those words exactly but he implied it strongly, back when he told us he was willing to do whatever it took for us to forgive him."

Ben tapped his notebook with his pen. "Have you forgiven him?"

Unprepared for the question, Chad's dark eyes rounded. "I... suppose I hadn't really thought about it."

"Think about it," the therapist encouraged. "Take your time."

"I think I have," Chad said reluctantly after a few moments. "Not when he first apologized but when I look for that anger now, it's not there. There's nothing there. Nothing at all. Is that strange?"

"They say forgiveness is really for the person doing the forgiving," the therapist said thoughtfully. "So they don't have to carry around the anger and negativity of holding a grudge."

Chad shrugged. "I don't know about that. I just know I'm much happier helping Vivien with Joshua than listening to those two brawl."

"That's not strange at all," assured Ben. He considered his notes, then asked: "Do you think Patrick would be willing to talk to me about this?"

"Ooh. I don't know. Do you think you should?"

"It'd be helpful if you're actually going to resolve anything," said Ben.

Chad remained skeptical. "You could try. Just don't put him in a bad mood."

"I'll do my best," Ben promised.

...

"Thanks for agreeing to meet with me," Ben smiled.

He motioned to the sitting area of the office, inviting Patrick to pick a seat. The man was giving off classic signs of emotional inaccessibility: His arms were folded, he kept a broad distance between himself and Ben and his expression was guarded. But he did agree to come, which Ben could only see as a positive sign.

"What is this about, exactly?" Patrick asked. He sat down in one of the black leather chairs.

"Well, I'm sure you know I counsel Tate," said Ben as he settled into his office chair. "I understand you and he have some sort of arrangement now, too? Something to do with his earning your forgiveness?"

"Something like that," said Patrick, eyeing Ben suspiciously.

Ben kept his doctor face on, placid and unbiased. "I was wondering how that works."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just wondering how the trade-off works," Ben said. "How do you quantify forgiveness?"

It was difficult for Patrick to decide whether Ben was challenging his methods or if he was truly asking. "Why do you want to know?"

"As Tate's therapist, I like to have the broadest picture of his personality that I can get. I'm also interested in any situation that may potentially affect him over an extended, unspecified period of time."

Patrick lifted his chin and regarded Ben for several silent seconds. "I'll forgive him when I stop feeling the urge to beat his ass whenever I see him. So far? That hasn't happened."

Ben was surprised by the bluntness. "So you're just going to beat on him till then?"

"Pretty much. You have a problem with that?"

"No," Ben said, sitting forward. "If it's something you've both agreed to, I'm all for it."

"You are?"

"Sure," smiled Ben. "I wouldn't mind going a few rounds with him myself."

Patrick's wariness was fading into confusion. "You wouldn't? But you're his therapist."

Ben shrugged. "I'm also the guy whose wife he raped."

"Why do you play head-doctor to him then?" Patrick's wonder bordered on disgust.

Ben's neutrality was his shield. "What else is there to do?"

Patrick gave a half-shrug, conceding without really agreeing. "You want to come next time I kick his ass?"

"I-" Ben stalled. "If he saw me there I think it would undermine our patient-doctor relationship."

"So wear the rubber suit," suggested Patrick. He could sense Ben's reluctance and it stirred an urge in him to call the man out. "He wouldn't know who you were then."

"I suppose that would work," said Ben.

He meant that the disguise idea would work but Patrick took it differently. "All right. Go get the suit."

Ben blinked. "Now?"

"Why not?"

"We're in a session."

Patrick leaned forward. "You really want to know what I'm doing, Dr. Harmon? No better place to find out than in the front row."

Ben met his steady gaze, jaw setting at the challenge implied in the other man's tone. "All right."

_He'd meant only to watch; to linger in the shadows and observe. But as the violence and perversion escalated he found himself drawn to it, out of the shadows, where he could be seen. Once Tate had seen the ironic rubber-clad figure and assumed it a punishment of poetic justice, Ben was compelled to deliver the horrors of that assumption. It was liberating and devastating and utterly unspeakable. Days later Dr. Harmon would see his patient, Tate, and talk him through his anxieties and listen to his thoughts. Just as always. _

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I just got my final chapter uploaded to the Doc Manager when I saw the 'Amityville Horror' remake by Michael Bay on TV. I'd never seen the movie before. Now the name of the youngest son in the original movie (and in the real-life story) was Christopher. The priest the family brought in was Father Mancuso. In Bay's remake, he called the youngest son Michael and the priest they brought in? Bay named him Father Jeremiah. Talk about a weird coincidence.

Incidently, several of the characters in American Horror Story were named after people from true life horror stories. Tate and Bianca, for instance, were named for the Tate-LaBianca murders committed by the Manson Family. Another spooky coincidence: Tate Langdon's birth year is 1977... the same year the real Amityville Horror occurred.

By the way, if you're into music to read by, my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 is in my profile. It's the stuff I listen to while I'm writing AHS - the soundtrack to the show that's playing in my head.


	3. Chapter 3 - On the Fence

**2018**

It didn't bode well that Violet had to find her mother to get an update.

"What did he say?" she prompted when she cornered Vivien in the kitchen, preparing a bottle for Joshua.

"I told him to leave us out of whatever they've got going on."

Violet stared at her mother, who wouldn't make eye contact. "Mom. What did he say?"

Vivien tried to look at her daughter resolutely but she couldn't. "Nothing really. Nothing that- Honestly, I don't really remember. I was upset and I didn't let him say much."

A laugh slipped from Violet involuntarily. Vivien smiled and shook the bottle.

"God, mom," Violet said, sobering. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the island. "What should I do?"

Vivien looked at her, surprised. "I don't know, honey. I told your father to leave us out of things. He has to respect that."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." Violet sucked on her cigarette then sighed, exhaling smoke. "I have to talk to dad."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Vivien said softly. She wasn't talking about Ben.

Violet looked at her mother for a silent moment then nodded. "I know, mom." She crushed out her cigarette and moved over to Vivien to give her a hug. "Why are men such idiots?"

Vivien laughed. "I don't think they all are."

"All the ones I've known were," said Violet. Her tone dared her mother to challenge that opinion.

Vivien didn't. She just squeezed Violet gently. "I wish I could tell you that you'd meet one someday that isn't."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Don't go all melodrama on me. There's enough of that going around already."

Vivien forced a smile and let her daughter go. "You're right about that. You'll… be okay?"

"Yeah, mom," Violet reassured kindly but impatiently. "I'll be fine. Are you okay?"

Vivien made a small frown. "No," she admitted. "No, I'm not."

Violet fidgeted with the worn cuffs of her sweater. "Do... you want to talk?"

"I don't know what there is to say," said Vivien. She propped both elbows on the island and braced her head with her palms. "There's so much blame to go around. I've blamed him." The emphasis she applied to the word left no question that she was talking about Tate. "I've blamed your father. I've even blamed myself."

"Mom..."

Vivien lifted her head to put up a hand. "I don't really feel that way. But I couldn't help thinking if I'd handled things differently..." She sighed. "There are a million 'what if's out there and we have eternity to examine them all. But I know this house makes people do things. Dead or alive, it has a hold on anything that comes inside it."

Violet lit another cigarette, chilled by the truth of those words. "You think the house made us make the choices that got us stuck here?"

"Yes," said Vivien. "I just don't understand why. It has us. It has all of these people here trapped. But whatever's trapping souls doesn't seem to be doing anything with them except using them to trap more. Why collect what isn't being used?"

"You're trying to apply logic to something that isn't logical," Violet said with a wry smile. "It's a house, mom. They aren't supposed to be able to collect anything but dust."

Vivien nodded. "You're right. I'm probably over-thinking things." She smiled wanly. "I ran out of puzzle books months ago."

"That's what the internet is for."

Vivien wrinkled her nose. "I don't like the internet. Too many weirdos being mean for no reason."

"You don't have to talk to people," said Violet. "There are loads of games and things you can do without having to talk to anybody."

"I don't know," Vivien hedged. "I just don't get the internet culture."

"You don't have to 'get' anything, mom. You can go to, like, a virtual book site and read whatever you want. Or play one-person games. Watch movies."

"I know," said Vivien. "I'm not completely 'net-ignorant. I just not a computer person."

Violet sighed and smiled. "You're hopeless, mom."

"I know." Vivien lifted the bottle. "I'm going to take this to your brother. Want to come?"

Violet considered then shook her head. "You go ahead. Dad has one of the laptops. I'm going to borrow it."

...

Her father wasn't in his office when she went back. Violet preferred it that way. She didn't have to have any awkward follow-up talks with him - yet anyway - and she didn't have to ask for the computer, which he'd left on the desk. She opened the lid and waited for the screen to come on. She opened a new browser and started her search.

It didn't take long, thanks to the ubiquity of the internet. Violet found an email address to contact Billie Dean Howard, the psychic lady Tate's mother had introduced her to. It took her longer to compose the message. Once she'd written it she re-read it and edited it several times. When she was finally finished the email read:

_Ms. Billie Dean,_

_Hi. It's Violet Harmon. I'm pretty sure you'll remember me. Constance Langdon introduced us at Murder House. I need to ask you about ghosts. Can they change? If they were one way in life, can they change into something else in death? _

_Truly,  
Violet_

She re-read the text once more before finally hitting the Send button. She knew there was a chance Billie Dean didn't know the answer but if anyone did, it would be her.

**...**

**2017**

It was a perfect late summer afternoon: Warm in the sun and cool in the shade. The breeze smelled of cut grass. Cicadas hummed. Six-year-old Michael could hear them from Mama Constance's garden in back of the house but he couldn't see them. None ever came into her space. They knew better. She had a deadly bug light and an arsenal of poisons that she thought he couldn't get to.

The bugs weren't of concern to the blond boy that afternoon. He'd seen something more interesting at the far end of the carefully tended yard. A bright blue something had nested itself in Mama Constance's pomegranate bush. Closer inspection revealed it to be an old toy airplane. It was a glider-type; he had some like it but his were plastic and foam. This one was made of splintery wood and rusted tin.

"Throw it back," someone beyond the rose-covered fence said. It was a child's voice, soft but urgent.

Michael tugged the toy from the bush and turned it over a couple of times, deciding whether he wanted to toss it back over the fence. "Who are you?"

The other child hesitated before saying, "Ethan. Who're you?"

"Michael." The boy gave the airplane a negligent throw. It barely made it over the fence. He could hear it plop to the ground on the other side. "How come I never saw you before?"

"How come I never saw you?" said Ethan. He giggled. "I just moved in with my parents. You want to come meet them? Then we could play."

Michael wanted to play. Father Jeremiah didn't play and Mama Constance couldn't play like another boy could. This boy sounded like he was Michael's age. Even if he had ugly old toys to play with it would be better than Michael playing by himself.

"I can't reach the gate latch," he said, partly to Ethan and partly to himself as he considered how he could change that.

"What are you doing?" A man's voice said from the other side of the fence. He sounded mad.

"I was just talking to Michael." Ethan's voice sounded smaller now.

Michael thought maybe he should speak up but the man had sounded so annoyed, the boy didn't want him to know he was there. He wanted to go back inside but was afraid to make any noise that would give away his position. His heart was beating so fast and hard it felt like it could jump out of his chest.

"You need to-" The man kept talking but his voice got too quiet for Michael to hear what he said. Then there was silence.

He waited a few moments before backing away from the fence. Once he was a safe distance he turned and ran into the house, locked the back door and bolted for his room upstairs. He kicked off his shoes and jumped into bed where he pulled the blankets up over his head. There in the security of the warm bedding he picked apart the fear he had felt. He decided that he didn't want to meet Ethan's father. He didn't want Mama Constance to meet him either. She might invite him to supper.

"Michael?"

The bedroom door opened and Father Jeremiah entered. He switched the light on. "Michael, what are you doing?"

The boy's head poked up from the covers, pale blond hair a mess. "Hiding."

Father Jeremiah chuckled. "And what are you hiding from?" He crossed the toy-strewn room to the bed.

"The bad man next door," Michael reported. With his mentor beside him, he didn't feel scared at all. "Ethan's daddy, I think."

"Who's Ethan? A friend of yours?"

Michael thought about it then shook his head. "Not yet. I only talked to him through the fence. But his daddy sounds meeeean."

"Oh?" Father Jeremiah prompted. He took a seat on the edge of the bed to better put him on eye level with his charge. "Did Ethan's father say something mean to you?"

Michael shook his head again. "He yelled at Ethan for being near the fence. Then they went inside."

Jeremiah's brow furrowed. He couldn't draw any solid conclusions based on so little. "Maybe I'll pop over and pay them a visit. Where do they live?"

"In the house Mama Constance watches."

"I… see. Well." Jeremiah patted Michael through the heaps of blankets. "I'll be back in a bit."

He left, closing the door behind him. Suddenly Michael didn't feel quite so secure, even with the light on. He wasn't used to feeling afraid. He didn't like it one bit.

...

The front door swung open after only one ring of the bell. Jeremiah found himself facing a tall, athletic-looking fellow in his late 20s or early 30s.

"Hello. I'm Father Jeremiah." He smiled and offered his hand. "I live next door with Miss Constance Langdon and her godson, Michael."

The man in the doorway didn't return the smile. "Patrick."

The two clasped hands and Jeremiah's expression wilted for just an instant. Touching Patrick's hand was uncomfortable, like shaking hands with an electrical current only without the pain. He let go quickly.

"Nice to meet you, Patrick," he lied. "May I come in?"

Patrick hesitated then stepped back out of the doorway, into the shadows. Jeremiah followed, noticing an instant drop in temperature as he left the summer sun. Patrick pushed the door shut. When the priest's eyes adjusted to the dim interior he saw a nicely appointed foyer dominated by a staircase that led to the upper rooms. The side rooms were showcases for antique furnishings that seemed to suit the house better than they did the homeowner.

"You certainly got settled in quickly," Father Jeremiah commented, putting a friendly smile back on.

"We had exceptional movers."

"Miss Constance's godson told me he met your son, Ethan," said Jeremiah. "Through the fence, as I understand it."

Patrick smiled then. It was a dry look that twisted only one corner of his mouth. "Beats texting."

Jeremiah chuckled. "Indeed. I'm for old-fashioned communication, myself. Text is so... impersonal."

He saw the child then, peeking out from an alcove behind the stairs. His resemblance to Michael was uncanny. They could be brothers. Jeremiah's attention drew Patrick's that way as well.

"Come on out," Patrick said to the boy. "Ethan."

The young boy emerged from his hiding spot and moved to stand beside Patrick. He looked to be about Michael's age. "Hi."

"Hello," smiled the priest. "I'm Father Jeremiah. It's nice to meet you."

Ethan gave him a quirky grin. "Father? Is there a Mother Jeremiah?"

"Knock it off," Patrick admonished.

"It's all right," assured Jeremiah. "I'm sure he doesn't know-"

"He knows," said Patrick, folding his arms. "He just thinks he's being cute."

"Well, I suppose he is rather cute," Jeremiah said. "Looks quite a bit like Miss Constance's godson, in fact."

Ethan made a face. "Boys aren't cute."

Patrick snorted.

Father Jeremiah laughed. "Only girls are?"

"Well..." Ethan said hesitantly. "Yeah. I guess."

"Girls aren't your thing yet?" asked Jeremiah.

He expected the boy to blush or protest but Ethan met him with an intense gaze. His eyes were flat black, reflecting no light. But there was something trapped there in those dark eyes; something wild and barely contained.

"I like one girl," said Ethan. Tears welled up but didn't fall. "But I haven't seen her in a long time."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Jeremiah said in his best consoling manner. "Well, I don't know how your parents feel about it but if they're all right with it, I'm sure Miss Constance would love to have you over to visit Michael."

He looked at Patrick but the man was looking at Ethan, who shared a rather odd look with his father. Rather, it was a quick series of looks that ended when Patrick shifted his attention irritably to Jeremiah. "I'm sorry, Father, but Ethan has allergies. We can't risk his accidentally getting into something."

"Maybe you could bring Michael over here," Ethan suggested.

Jeremiah nodded. "I'll be sure to ask. I'll get going now. I just wanted to welcome your family to the area since I heard that someone was living here. It'll be nice having neighbors."

"Uh-huh," Patrick said. He walked the priest to the door. "Say hi to Constance for me."

Jeremiah nodded. "Will do. Nice meeting you."

He saw Ethan wave from the shadows of the foyer before the door swung shut.

Gloom settled over the dark wood paneled entryway once the sun was closed out again. Patrick looked over at the blond boy near the stairs.

"Ethan, huh?"

"I couldn't use my real name," the boy insisted. "What if he told my mother? She'd flip out."

Pat shook his head and started upstairs. "She hasn't been here in years, Tate. I don't know why you care what she thinks."

"Because I want Michael to come over," Tate said, keeping pace with the athlete.

"She's not going to let him come over to an empty house that she knows is haunted with souls who want at him."

Tate didn't let the pessimism puncture his hopes. "That priest thinks people live here. Maybe he'll let him."

Patrick paused on the landing and glanced back at the front door. Then he looked down at the six year old version of Tate who was looking back up at him with such hope it was almost comical.

"If Michael comes back to this house," predicted Patrick. "He'll die. Someone or something in this house will kill him."

Tate frowned. "Not necessarily."

"I guarantee it."

"Are you going to kill him?" the boy asked defensively.

"No, I'm not going to kill him," said Patrick. "But this isn't some ordinary kid we're talking about. We're talking about a kid that was born from a ghost and a dead woman. You bring _that_ back into this place - the place where he was conceived and born - who knows what will happen?"

Tate pouted silently for a moment. Then: "But didn't you like talking to that guy? The priest?"

Patrick felt his patience chafe. "That's not the point. The point is: Don't go stirring up trouble." He gave Tate the Look that meant Very Bad Things if he didn't comply. "Come on. Let's go talk to Chad."

"Oh, come on!" Tate groaned. Despite the protest he followed Patrick down the hall. "You don't have to make such a big deal about it. Are you going to tell Doctor Harmon, too?"

He expected an immediate 'yes' but Pat surprised him with silence. Tate scampered ahead of him, trying to read his frown. "Are you?"

Patrick flicked a brief glance down. "We'll see."

...

Chad was putting together a chandelier made from the parts of two different lamps, a project that had kept him occupied for days. He was working on the wiring when Patrick and Tate came in. Pat told him about the conversation through the fence, the subsequent visit from the boy's guardian, and the pending offer to return.

"So don't answer the door if he comes back," said Chad. "Why did you open it to him in the first place?"

Patrick scowled. He had assumed Chad would back him up but that seemed ridiculous in retrospect. "Maybe because there hasn't been anyone new around here in years. It was nice to talk to someone who's actually alive."

Tate felt the same way about his contact with Michael but didn't interject his opinion. Instead he watched the pair in silent fascination.

"Oh," said Chad. He looked back to his work. "So it had nothing to do with his being attractive."

Tension gathered as Patrick bit back the first three responses that came to mind. It was all the more irritating that, as always, Chad was right. A large part of Pat's willingness to let the man inside the house was based on the fact that he was physically appealing to the bodybuilder.

"Why do you always do that?" Patrick demanded. "Why do you have to always go there?"

"I don't go there, dear," Chad murmured without looking up. "You do."

"You know what? Fine," said Patrick, putting his hands up. "You don't care if that kid comes here? I don't either."

"Great," Chad said in a perfect blend of weary and pestered. "Now could you please let me be so I can finish this? I have other projects waiting."

Patrick left in a foul mood. Tate lingered for a few moments then left as well. He found his way back down to the back yard. He didn't expect Michael to be there but it didn't hurt to check.

"Hey, little boy," Hayden said from somewhere behind him.

Tate turned and saw her standing in the shade of the gazebo that covered her grave. She was leaning on the rail. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she wore a tight dark blue sweater.

"Come here," she said.

Since he had nothing else to do, Tate did.

"Aren't you, like, nineteen?" she asked once he'd joined her in the shadows.

He grinned. "I'm forty-one, actually, by birthdays. But I died when I was seventeen."

Hayden found the answer odd but amusing. "Why've you been running around looking like a kid then?"

"Because it's fun."

"You want to be your 'normal' age?" Hayden said. "Maybe we could mess around. I'm bored."

Tate shook his head. "Travis says you stab a lot. Besides, I love Violet."

"She doesn't love you," she scoffed, insulted. "God! When are you going to give up? It's been six fucking years!"

"I told you. I'll wait forever," he shrugged. "I love her."

"You're an idiot!"

"You didn't give up on Doctor Harmon."

Hayden looked as though he'd slapped her.

"You're dead because of your devotion," Tate reminded. "You're trapped here because you wouldn't give up on him."

Hayden folded her arms. "Yeah. Well. Maybe I'm an idiot too."

Before she knew what was happening, she was crying. She turned away to smudge viciously at the tears with the heels of her hands. She had promised herself she would never cry because of Ben again. When she looked back over her shoulder, Tate was gone.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I've been re-reading Stephen King's memoir "On Writing". He's got a lot of great advice for aspiring authors. In the movie version of his semi-autobiographical _Misery_ Kathy Bates played Annie, the #1 fan that holds the author hostage and forces him, with torture, to write another novel featuring her favorite character. Bates was brilliantly scary in that.

She recently signed on with American Horror Story, season 3 (Coven). She loves the series... Apparently she told the director she would "do anything" to be on the show. Considering what she did for _Misery_, this really thrills me.

Check out my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 in my profile if you want to hear the soundtrack for this fanfic.


	4. Chapter 4 - Ghost Hunters

**2018 **

"This is it," Stan the Eternal Darkness tour guide said with a grandiose wave at the old mansion. "Murder House. The realtor has given permission for you to be here for one night, from dusk to dawn."

The group he addressed was a collection of eight people, a self-appointed paranormal investigation troop from the syndicated ghost-hunting show, 'Mission: Paranormal'. They were doing a set on California haunted houses and the Murder House of Los Angeles was choice since it hadn't been explored by another group yet.

"Please leave the house in the condition you found it. Your insurance is liable for any damages." The tour guide dropped out of his official voice to note: "The realtor wanted me to say that part."

"Thank you," the show's host, Nick Carver, said with false good humor. "Why don't we get started then?"

The rotund tour guide unlocked the front door and stood aside. Five people went in while the other three returned to their van to start unloading and setting up equipment. Stan followed the host's group into the entrance hall.

"It's so pretty! Look at the stained glass!" gushed a red-headed woman named Andy. She started taking pictures with the complicated camera she had on a strap around her neck.

"Charles Montgomery spared no expense in giving his wife the house she wanted," intoned Stan. "But money and great stained glass windows can't buy happiness."

"Thank you," said Nick briskly. "We can find our way from here." He looked up the staircase with the wonder of a boy on Christmas morning. "Hey, Dave. Come get some video of this stairwell. And we're going to need at least four- no, five cameras upstairs. Two on each floor, plus one in the attic."

A well-built Hawaiian fellow armed with cumbersome video equipment moved to the winding upward flight. Stan wasn't expecting to be dismissed so readily but his feelings weren't bruised. There were plenty of tourists in California who wanted to hear his improvisational spiel.

"Have a great show," he said on his way out. Then, in a knowing undertone: "Try not to die..."

...

Violet pulled up her email. She'd been checking it daily. At least she thought she had. Days had a way of blurring together in the house. According to the date, it had taken Billie Dean over a week to get back to her but there at last was an email. Excited, the girl opened the message.

_Dearest Violet,_

_I am positive I will always remember you. I'm very happy you've reached out to me. I'm glad to know email is a method you can use to stay connected to the outside world. Maintain that. You'll need that connection._

_In answer to your questions, as long as a thing exists, there is possibility for change. Life - and death -is all about change. Very little in our world is static. Very little indeed._

_But in my experience, most ghosts are stuck in a dream-like state where time means nothing. Does this match with what you've experienced? _

_Affecting change inside a bubble where existence is basically a repeating moment can be almost impossible if the ghost in question isn't aware that they are dead or refuses to accept that fact. Primarily it's a desire for change that facilitates it. Spirits can change, but from what I've seen it is a slow process. A good person in life isn't going to suddenly become a villain in death. _

_But change in ghosts isn't always for the better. Once a soul loses touch with empathy and humanity, it can become something far worse than any living thing could ever be. I've known lost souls that have become that way over time. _

_Please take care of yourself, Violet. I am in New York for the next few weeks but I will try to book some time in Los Angeles, if you would like me to come and visit you._

_Your friend,  
Billie Dean_

Violet re-read the email twice then sank back into her pillows. She decided that she wanted Billie Dean to visit. They could learn a lot from one another, she was sure. She was set to start typing her reply when there was a pounding at her bedroom door. She was rarely disturbed when she was holed up in her room so she pushed the computer aside and slid off the bed.

"Who is it?" she called as she moved toward the door.

"There are ghost hunters in the house!" one of the twins called back. "Come see!"

Violet pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall. The tween twin ghosts Troy and Bryan were there, bloody and grinning ear to ear.

"Come on, Violet," said Bryan. He backed toward the stairs, waving to signal she should speed up.

"Come on, Violet!" insisted his brother. Troy tugged on her arm once. Then both boys ran to the staircase.

Violet followed them to the zigzagging flight of stairs. "Ghost hunters? What are you talking about?"

The twins were already down the stairs, having skipped most of them with a quick dematerialization. Violet descended a couple of steps then she, too, disappeared. She reappeared in the downstairs hallway and oriented on the sounds in the living room. There were lights and rigging and wires everywhere. Normally the house looked like she remembered it but whenever then living intruded, the home she'd known in life faded away.

She watched the group from the doorway. Troy and Bryan were in with the living adults, throwing snap-pops and investigating the equipment.

"I wonder if any of that stuff will work," she said.

"It won't," said Troy. "Not if we don't let it." His brother giggled.

"You're going to sabotage their mission?"

The two redheads grinned.

Violet rolled her eyes. "What is with you guys and other people's property?"

They ignored her and went back to poking around. The investigators were as busy as a hive of bees with Nick telling his crew what to do and them trying to do it without running into each other or tripping over the scattered wires.

Technical difficulties ensued thanks to the twins. The first issue cropped up when Bryan loosened the power strip that fueled the main console where the group was setting up their computer monitors. It took the investigators several minutes to discover the loose plug during which time the twins were howling with laughter.

"What a circus," said Travis. He'd come up behind Violet and was regarding the chaos in the living room with a mixture of amusement and awe.

Violet grimaced. "This is going to be a nightmare."

"How long do you think they'll be here?" asked Travis.

"Overnight," the brothers supplied helpfully. Troy loosened another plug across the room.

"Shouldn't be too bad then," Travis said.

Violet was so sure. "Yeah. We'll see."

They watched the ghost hunters come and go, move equipment about, check handheld gadgets and swap previous "real experience" stories with each other for the cameras.

"I always thought I'd be on film," said Travis wistfully. He drifted closer to cameraman Dave. Dave was engrossed in checking the settings on the camera designated for the attic. "Man! Why couldn't they have come closer to Halloween? Then maybe I coulda been on TV!"

"Doing what?" asked Violet.

Travis smiled and straightened. "Looking good!"

Violet laughed. "You have to do more than that to get on television."

"Well, I woulda danced or something," said Travis. He ducked out of the way when Dave got up suddenly, even though he didn't have to. Dave would have passed right through him. "Maybe told ghost stories about this place. I know 'em _all_."

"You do?"

"Heck yeah," Travis boasted. "I started in the attic and worked my way down. Well. Not exactly. It was more like... I was in the attic and then on the second floor and then kind of in the basement some-"

"Right," Violet interrupted to stop him going on forever. "I get it. So... You know everybody's story here? Every ghost?"

Travis thought about it then nodded, a motion that made his long brown hair sway. "Yeah, pretty much. Turns out? There's a lot of really sad dead people here."

"I sort of gathered that, too."

"Oh, hey," Travis said, perking up. "Do you think if I stood right in front of their camera and did that thing where we let people see us…? Maybe that'd get me on film?"

"I'm guessing if ghosts could make themselves appear on film," said Violet. "There'd be a lot more pictures of them. Real pictures."

Travis sighed and nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right." The other cameraman, Garrett, came in and the pretty-boy ghost's mood instantly improved. "I'm still going to try though."

Violet rolled her eyes but the guy's optimism made her smile in spite of herself. She left Travis to his attempt at afterlife stardom and went back upstairs.

...

The laptop was sitting on her bed where she'd left it. Violet belly-flopped on the covers beside it and lay there face-down. Earlier she'd known exactly what she was going to say to Billie Dean. Now she wasn't sure. Talking to the woman in person would be much easier. It would take forever to write out everything Violet was thinking and feeling.

She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

_Spirits can change._

The first weeks without Tate had been the hardest. Waking up and reaching for him; knowing he wasn't there and wouldn't be. Knowing that he would never again surprise her with his weird but sincere ways of letting her know he cared. It was so much lonelier without him close. In the past when she'd started missing him she summoned to mind all the people he'd wronged, starting with her own family. She did it again now to chase back her mixed feelings.

Tate had forced himself on her mother. That revolted the teen on a personal social level and it also made her feel somewhat cheated on. But mostly it just grossed her out. He had lied to Violet and to her dad more times than she could count and probably even more than she knew. He had murdered 15 people at his school when he was alive. After he'd died, he'd killed at least two more people. Possibly more.

But then he'd also saved Violet and her mom from the crazed home invaders. He'd tried to save her life again when Violet had overdosed on those pills Leah gave her. He'd scared the hell out of Leah to stop her picking on Violet at school before that. If he'd lied to her about any of that, she knew it was only to protect her.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her parents were obviously divided on the subject and so was she.

**...**

**2017 **

"I met our new neighbors," Father Jeremiah said over supper. He instantly had Constance and Michael's full attention.

"Neighbors?" said Constance. "What do you mean?"

Jeremiah passed the green beans her way. "Next door. The old Victorian."

Constance reached for the bowl of vegetables but pulled her hands back just as Jeremiah released it. The dish hit the table with a heavy thump. "Next door? Why, there's nobody livin' there."

"Yes, there is," Michael piped up. "Ethan is. He's my friend."

Constance looked from her grandson to the priest for more clarification.

"A family's moved in," said Jeremiah. "A couple and their son, I believe."

"I didn't see any movin' trucks." Constance abandoned her seat and dove for her cigarettes. Once she had one lit she moved to a window where she could see the silhouette of Murder House against the evening sky. "No lights on."

The priest tucked into his meal and quietly encouraged Michael to do the same. Then, to Constance: "Maybe they're out to dinner. Come and eat."

Constance stared at the house, one arm folded over her middle to act as a shelf for the arm she smoked with. While Father Jeremiah was aware of her fixation with the place, she wore an obsessive expression he had never seen before. Was that fear?

"I was thinking of taking Michael over for a play date," he said, testing her reaction.

"Oh, no," Constance said, shaking her head so vigorously her up-do sagged to one side. "Oh, no, no. He's not goin' in _that_ place. And neither should you." Seeing the looks on the faces of her acquired family she added: "It has... hist'ry."

"History?" the priest prompted.

"That house... has a long legacy of killin' those that live inside it." She waved her cigarette distractedly at the table and massaged her temple with her free hand. "This isn't a subject proper for supper or for children. You two go ahead. I need a drink."

Constance drifted out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

Michael looked at his mentor. "Can houses kill people?"

"Well, if one fell on someone, it could," Jeremiah told him. "But they can't just reach out and kill you, no."

"Was Ethan's daddy mean?"

"He wasn't the warmest individual I've met," Jeremiah reflected after some consideration. "He's a bit unusual, perhaps. But I don't think there's anything to worry about."

Michael smiled, reassured. "I can go over and play then."

"I don't know, Michael," said Father Jeremiah. "It sounded like Mama Constance said no. Even if we don't agree with her reasons, we have to respect her rules."

Michael frowned. "I want to play with Ethan."

"Until Mama Constance says you may, you won't be playing at Ethan's house." Jeremiah's tone was inflexible. "If he wants to come over here, he has an invite. But his daddy said he has allergies and can't go far from home."

"He was in the back yard," said Michael.

"He may not be allergic to things found in yards," said Jeremiah.

"We could play in the yard then."

Jeremiah considered. "Perhaps. We'll ask Mama Constance when she feels better."

Michael's shoulders sagged. "She never feels better."

"We'll ask at breakfast tomorrow."

"All right," Michael said with a dramatic sigh. He speared some meat and stuffed it in his mouth. "Can I help make breakfast?"

"Only if you promise not to drop the eggs," Jeremiah smiled.

...

Constance had to go over. She had no choice. From the moment Father Jeremiah told her there were new occupants in the house, she knew she would have to go. She braced herself with a couple of glasses of bourbon first then went and let herself in through the back door. The key was still where it always had been, hidden on the door frame. She expected to see new dishes and personal belongings but the kitchen was empty. A quick tour of the nearest rooms found them empty as well.

"This isn't right," she muttered and turned to leave.

"Mother."

Constance froze, her heart in her throat. She pressed a hand to her collarbone and turned, tears springing to her eyes. "Tate?"

He stood a few feet away, looking just as she loved to remember him: Seventeen, beautiful and full of promise. The last time last time they'd been together he had looked at her with such hatred, she thought she'd lost him forever.

"I missed you," he said with a sweet smile, arms out.

With a soft cry of joy Constance flung herself into his embrace. She kissed his cheeks, inhaled the scent of him, pet his messy hair. "Oh, Tate, baby. I missed you too. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner. But Mama had things to do. Very important things."

He let her cling to him for several minutes before pulling away enough to make eye contact. Tears streaked both of their faces but hers were more earnest. "I met Michael," he said.

Constance's joy dimmed. She pushed her son back further. "You did? When?"

"A few days ago. Can he come over? To visit? You could come too. And the priest."

"Tate, honey," Constance laughed in shock. "It's not safe for him here! Why do you think I took him out of this God-forsaken place?"

"I want to see him," said Tate. He paused, fishing for the best ammunition to use. "He's my son."

"You're no father," derided Constance. "You can't even leave this house!"

Tate didn't want his feelings to be hurt by her casual callousness but he couldn't help it. Still he stuck to his approach. There was too much to lose if he lost his cool. "I want to see him, mother. Please?"

Constance regarded her dead son. It was very difficult for her to say no to him when he was like this. "Tate. Sweetheart-"

"He's not in any danger now," Tate insisted. He could sense her resolve weakening. "The people who wanted him only wanted a baby. He's not a baby anymore. They won't care about him. Besides, Doctor Harmon and his wife wouldn't let anything happen to him. Neither would Violet."

Constance was almost swayed - till he brought up the Harmons. "I wouldn't trust those idiots to keep a ball of dirt safe."

Tate frowned. "They're not idiots, mother. They just made some mistakes. Like all of us."

"One mistake I didn't make," Constance said as she lit a cigarette. "Was takin' Michael out of here."

"Mother," Tate protested. "It's not like he'd be alone. You and that priest guy-"

"Father Jeremiah."

"Yeah, him." Tate paused. "Who is he, anyway? He's kind of creepy."

"He's Michael's mentor," his mother supplied, exhaling smoke in his direction. "He's a wonderful influence on the boy."

Tate was stung again, on several levels. The whole conversation had him wanting to go slit a wrist or two. "I could be, too."

Constance laughed, short and snide. "How?"

He had no answer for that.

She spared him the embarrassment of trying to scrounge up something. "So who are these tenants that have moved in? Some kid and his parents?" She glanced about like they might pop out of the deserted guts of the house.

"It was just me," Tate said cagily. "I'm the kid. I figured he'd find it less weird than some strange teenager wanting to talk to him."

Constance eyed her son suspiciously. "Father Jeremiah said he met the boy's daddy."

"That was just Patrick. He was just messing around with the guy."

"Why?"

"Because he was bored. He wanted to talk to somebody new, I guess." Tate's fingers disappeared into his long sleeves. "I just want to be with my family. It's so lonely here, mother."

She looked at him and sighed. Then she gathered him up in another hug. After a bit she said, "Do you see Travis around at all?"

"Sometimes. He mostly hangs out with..." Tate looked up her profile, not sure how she would take his next words. "Larry's kids."

Constance's nose wrinkled. "They're still here?"

Tate shrugged without letting go of her. "Yeah. They stay in the attic mostly."

"As good a place for them as any," she said. "I suppose it makes sense Travis would end up with them. He was always so good with animals and children. Maybe I'll see if I can find him before I go."

"Will you bring Michael over?" Tate hugged his mother tighter but she peeled him off.

She went and dropped her cigarette butt in the sink then she turned and leaned back against the counter to look at him. She didn't stand a chance against the forlorn look he speared her with. "I suppose. BUT. Only durin' the day. Only for a short period of time. And he never leaves my sight."

Tate grabbed hold of her again, hugging tight. "Thank you! Thank you!" He let go and beamed at her. "It'll be perfect. You'll see."

"I doubt that," Constance said. She kissed his cheek once more. "I'm going to go see Travis now, honey. Try to be good."

"I will," he pledged. "Just come back soon."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

When I was a kid, one of my favorite horror/paranormal movies was _Poltergeist_. I still adore it. One of my favorite lines from the movie is when the psychic tells the parents of the kid the ghosts have stolen:

"_It keeps Carol Anne very close to it and away from the spectral light. It LIES to her, it tells her things only a child could understand... To her, it simply IS another child. To us, it is the BEAST." _

I had fun toying with the concept. Only it gets a little twisty when you try to sort out which is which here. BTW, the movie's a cool spawn of the original _Twilight Zone_ episode "Little Girl Lost".

Check out my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 in my profile if you want to hear the soundtrack for this fanfic.


	5. Chapter 5 - Opportunity

**2018**

"We gotta figure out how to make the camera see us," said Travis.

"Bed sheets," Troy suggested.

His brother had gone upstairs with the ghost hunters but Troy wanted to know what the 'Dahlias' were going to cook up. Elizabeth Short and Travis Wanderly had shared similar desire for fame in life and suffered similar post-mortem dissection after their murders. They also shared similar interest in the filming equipment that was strewn about the living room.

"Bed sheets?" said Elizabeth. "I don't want to wear a bed sheet."

Travis grinned. "I wore one for a costume once, for Halloween. Not to be a ghost though. I used it for a toga."

Elizabeth smiled. "I'm sure you looked nice."

"Oh, yeah," he agreed without an ounce of modesty. "I totally rocked the toga scene."

"So what're you going to do?" prompted Troy.

Travis looked around but planning things was not a strong suit of his. Elizabeth's vacant look promised no help. "I don't know. Too bad they didn't leave a marker or something. We could write on the wall."

"Moira would throw a fit," said Troy gleefully.

"Oh. Yeah." Travis thought some more. "Hey. Maybe we could possess a couple of the ghost hunters. Can't be too hard. I mean to make them write something or whatever. Mrs. Harvey did it to living people. She made them burn their hands on the stove."

Beth looked alarmed. "I don't want to hurt anyone!"

"No," Travis said. "I mean we could just make somebody write something or say something to the camera. Maybe you could take one of the girls and I could grab a guy. Like a scene from a play."

"A play?" Elizabeth echoed vacantly. "You want to do a scene from a play?"

Travis hadn't meant that but he liked the idea. "Sure. That'd be cool."

Elizabeth smoothed a hand over her dark curls. "What scene?"

Troy eyed them both. "You're going to try to possess somebody to do a scene from a play?"

"You want to?" Travis extended the offer to the boy.

It had been decades since Troy had a genuine offer to do something diverting from someone other than his brother. As stupid as he found the idea, it also had its appeal.

"Yeah," he decided. "Sure."

...

Upstairs, the ghost hunters rigged up cameras in each of the bedrooms. Wires and lighting were positioned at key points in rooms and the hallways. Everything was ready except the attic camera which kept losing its signal thanks to Bryan's interference. Wade, the head of electronic equipment, and Garrett, the 2nd cameraman, finally got things working about the time Nick called everyone together for their traditional pre-show meeting.

They met in the downstairs entryway so the outdoor portion of the crew could listen in. Nick debriefed them on the bloody history of Murder House in his own fashion though most of them were already at least passing familiar with the tales. With sunset approaching, the host wrapped up the meeting and launched into a pep talk staged for the cameras. He reminded the audience of the history of the place - the short version - then they cut recording to wait for sunset.

Once the sun went down they started filming again, capturing shut down of the lights from inside and outside. Albert and Lisa set out to investigate the grounds while their third member, Eddie, stayed in the van to monitor the camera signals and post updates to the internet. Inside, the crew split into smaller groups with Andy, Wade, and Dave covering the basement to the 2nd floor as one group and Nick and Garrett on another team to handle the 3rd floor and attic.

The ghosts followed the first group.

"How do we do this?" asked Travis. Neither Troy nor Beth had an answer.

They watched the ghost hunters explore the basement's dusty corners and odd leftover objects from generations of previous owners. Primarily it was Charles Montgomery's belongings in the basement. None of the previous owners ever spent enough time in the house to get around to cleaning it out.

"We should do an EVP session," Wade said after getting an eyeful of body parts pickled in jars of formaldehyde gone orange with age.

"Oh! Oh!" Travis exclaimed. "I know what that is! It's where they get those little recorder things, that thing he's holding? That records ghost voices."

"It does?" Elizabeth moved closer to the man that was holding the device. "How?"

Travis didn't know but Wade delivered the answer for them.

"If there's anyone here," the investigator said. "We would like to talk to you. This is a digital voice recorder. It can sometimes pick up sound the human ear can't detect. I'm going to ask some questions. If you answer, we might be able to hear you on the playback." Then, in a more confidential tone he said, "Andy, I set the EMF detector up over there by the stairs. Can you keep an eye on it?"

"What are they doing?" Troy asked.

"All right. We're recording," said Wade. "EVP session 368 - 'Murder House'." He paused. "Is there anyone here?" Another pause. "Why are you here?"

The ghosts looked at each other then Travis leaned in close to the recorder in the man's hand. "We want you to record us on film."

The man was already speaking. "How did you die?"

Travis shrugged. "Some crazy bitch knifed me. She's here too. Not here-here but-"

The ghost hunter was speaking again, cutting off Travis' rambling response. "Is there something you would like us to know?"

"This is stupid," Troy opined and poked the OFF button of the DVR that Wade held.

The ghost hunter noticed immediately. "Hey. My recorder just switched off."

Dave zoomed in on the device with his camera while Andy checked the EMF meter. "Nothing's showing over here," she said.

Wade turned the recorder back on. "Did you do that?"

"No, I did," said Troy.

"Is the spirit of Charles Montgomery here? Or one of his victims?"

Beth raised her hand. "I sort of was."

Travis experimentally tried to step into Dave's body, in order to control it, but he passed right through the guy. "Man! 'Ghost' made this look so much easier!"

"Try grabbing his hand," suggested Troy.

"I don't want to hold his hand," said Travis. "I want to make him act out some Shakespeare or something."

The paranormal investigators moved deeper into the basement with their equipment, waving gadgets and dragging wires here and there. The ghosts followed.

"Even if you do," said the younger boy. "That isn't going to prove anything. Nobody who sees it'll think ghosts are doing it. It's not really you that's gonna be on the film."

Travis hadn't thought of that but he wasn't about to give up. "Well. We'll just have to figure out how to show up on film some other way."

Beth wrung her hands. "How?"

They were back to square one.

**...**

**2014 - early summer  
**

Tate had pushed his hands through his blond hair so many times it stuck out in every direction. "Do you really think it'll work?"

Dr. Harmon, seated across the office coffee table from him, nodded. "It was partly their idea. If you're willing to try, they are. It'll be better than the situation you've been in. And it's worth trying if it means closure. Don't you think? You and Patrick will be able to move on and Chad, well... He can get a taste of family beyond borrowing my baby."

"It'll be weird to be a kid again."

Ben already thought of Tate as a kid but it wouldn't be diplomatic to say so. "Patrick said he thought it would work." The psychiatrist spread his hands. "He has too many issues with... you at this age. It's like a red flag in front of a bull."

Tate gave a weak smile. "Only that's not true."

Ben blinked, lost. "What?"

"Bulls. They're color-blind. They can't see red."

"The color isn't important," said Ben. "It's seeing the waving cape that makes the bull want to charge. In this case, you're the cape. Turn the cape into a bale of hay..."

Tate curled up tighter on the couch and hugged his knees to his chest. "…you get hay splattered all over the place."

The doctor smiled in spite of himself. "No. The bull doesn't get angry when it sees hay."

Tate peeked through his unruly fringe at Ben. "Don't bulls eat hay?"

"Forget the bull, Tate."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Harmon." The boy was grinning now. "Mom always said I was full of bull."

"Tate."

"Sorry."

Ben sighed. "This is serious, Tate."

"I know, I know," Tate's hands were in his hair again. "It's just a big change."

"Isn't that the point?" asked Ben. "The things you say you want... Those won't come without big changes. You know that."

Tate nodded and started picking at his sweater sleeve. "We're still going to talk, though, right? You and me?"

"Of course," Ben said. "Nothing between us will change."

That reassured the teenager. "Okay."

Ben studied his patient. "Are you ready to talk to them?"

Tate smiled but his dark eyes were panic-stricken. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Ben stood and moved to the door, giving Tate's shoulder a reassuring squeeze in passing. Tate chewed on his thumbnail while the other two men were let in. Dr. Harmon invited them to the settee; Chad and Patrick each took one of the boxy leather seats. Ben sat back down in his office chair. Tate darted a quick look from Chad to Patrick and, finding them both staring at him, shifted his attention back to Ben.

"Well," said the doctor, bringing his hands together between his knees in an audible clasp. "Thank you all for agreeing to this meeting." Everyone was looking at him now. Unlike Tate, he welcomed the attention. "I know this hasn't been easy for any of you but I believe we're at a real turning point now. The fact that you're willing to try something that will hopefully help you all move on is pretty damned amazing in itself."

The therapist paused to shoot a proud look around the circle of grim faces. Then he said, "Chad, you suggested this course in the hopes of establishing a less violent co-existence with Patrick, without completely removing his, uh, right to work through his issues with Tate. And we agreed that this also might help you with your unresolved parenting issues."

Chad gave a curt nod, less than thrilled with the way Ben summed that up.

"Patrick," Ben looked at the larger man. "You've told me that you're willing try this, provided Tate does his part in keeping to the spirit and letter of the agreement."

Patrick nodded and folded his arms.

Ben looked at Tate. "Laws of the living don't apply but this is, in effect, a foster arrangement. You're agreeing to follow through with this just as if you were alive. You've said that you believe having the influence of a prominent father figure in life would have made a big difference in who you became. You've got two now and the next eighteen years to prove yourself. To everyone."

"Sounds so legal," said Tate, trying to hide his nerves with humor.

"There's nothing legal about it," Ben shrugged. "But the only person who really stands to lose anything by not following the agreement is you."

Tate's spark of humor fizzled. "I'll follow it. I didn't say I wasn't going to."

"You'd better or we go back to the old deal," Patrick said.

"If everyone's agreed," Ben interjected quickly. "Let's get this underway. Tate? Can you..?"

Tate hesitated then nodded. His outline fogged and shrank, then coalesced into a much younger version of himself, roughly six years old. Of all the ghosts that haunted Murder House, Moira was the only one who regularly shifted ages. They might all have the potential to change but most spirits were content with being the age at which they'd died. Ben found it almost as disturbing to watch Tate regress as it was to see Moira age.

"Well," said Chad, breaking the silence that followed the transformation. "I know two things that have to change if this is going to work." He arched his brows at the quizzical looks he earned. "That hair. And those clothes."

Tate looked down at his stripy shirt. It had shrunk with him so he couldn't see why it was a problem. "What's wrong with my hair and my clothes?"

"Only everything."

Tate looked over at Dr. Harmon, who gave a little shrug.

"Just because you're dead doesn't mean you need to look the part," admonished Chad. "The haircut is the easiest to start with. The rest... Well. We'll get to that as we can."

Tate had never been threatened with restyling before and wasn't sure how to react.

"Okay," he said reluctantly.

That simple answer pacified Chad as readily as it had Constance in the past, when she'd made unreasonable demands. It also served as a hurdle that was cleared, a signature to the deal that had just been negotiated between the ghosts. Later he would regret agreeing so quickly when he saw his Wesley Krusher haircut in the mirror. But when he stepped out of Ben's office that afternoon, Tate felt like he'd moved one step closer to Violet.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

The 'Mission: Paranormal' group is inspired by the many ghost hunting shows that haunt pop culture. The host is loosely based on a host of one of my least favorite of the bunch. He's also influenced by the host played by Morton Downey Jr. on the _Tales from the Crypt _episode "Television Terror".

Interestingly, the Black Dahlia murder investigation was reopened Feb. 2013. The primary suspect, Dr. George Hodel, had a son, Steve, who wrote a book about his father's likely involvement and has been working with authorities. Steve was on an episode of _Ghost Hunters _and later on _Haunted Encounters_.

Check out my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 in my profile if you want to hear the soundtrack for this fanfic.


	6. Chapter 6 - No Holds Barred

**2018**

"No investigation of Murder House would be complete without a thunderstorm," said Albert. He adjusted the plastic tarp he'd banded over his shoulder camera to keep the rain off.

"Yeah," Lisa agreed. "Check out the fog around the gazebo."

The cameraman got a close up of the hazy vapor around the wooden structure. It looked bluish gray against the black of night but showed up gray-green on the camera's night vision. Lightning lit up the back yard briefly followed by a menacing rumble of thunder.

"There's definitely energy here," said Lisa as they drew nearer to the roofed patio. Albert focused the camera on the psychic as lightning flickered again. She put a hand out as though feeling a field that the eye couldn't detect. "Something bad happened here. I feel... sorrow."

The rain fell harder, hissing on unseen foliage. The ghost hunters took shelter in the gazebo, shivering as the wind picked up.

"Hey, what's that?" Lisa asked, pointing to the upper story of the house.

Albert swung his camera around and focused on the house. For a long moment there was nothing then: A flash of light. He lowered the camera.

"I think it's just the attic team. Call 'em."

Lisa obliged by pulling out her short range radio. "Hey. This is Lisa outside. Is anyone near the windows in the attic? We're seeing light down here."

There was silence then the radio crackled. "Yeah, it's us," Nick's voice came through. "We'll try to keep the beams down."

Albert brought Lisa into frame again. "Rain's slacking off a bit. Want to check out the side yard?"

Lisa looked around but whatever sense of foreboding she'd gotten when they first arrived was gone. "Yeah. I wish I'd brought an umbrella though. That'll teach me to look at a forecast before agreeing to do yard duty."

"I had a great umbrella hat," said Albert as they left the gazebo. "But I lost it right before this trip. Can you believe that? Of all the luck. I looked everywhere for it."

"They're not that expensive," Lisa said. "You can get them at the mall for, like, fifteen dollars."

"I don't want a new one," Albert replied. "I want mine."

"It's that sort of attitude that leads to hauntings," said Lisa sagely. "Don't place too much emphasis on worldly things or you'll wind up bound to them forever."

Albert chuckled. "If I wind up bound to my umbrella hat, at least I'll know where it is."

The wind picked up, scraping branches against the side of the house. A loud clap of thunder shook the windows and caused the investigators to jump.

"Remind me why we do this again?" asked Albert.

"For fun," Lisa said, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding.

"Some fun."

They rounded the corner, unaware of the two shadowy figures following them.

...

At the back of the garden, overgrown with vines and overlooked by the ghost hunting team, stood the old storage shed. It held an assortment of items from various owners of the home: A couch, a maze of boxes, some old tools... a large collection of odds and ends filled the space. Tate sat on large trunk and watched as Patrick rummaged through the dusty stacks.

"What are we looking for exactly?" the boy asked.

"I told you. A big, black case." Patrick moved aside a crate filled with CDs and DVDs.

The light they searched by was spectral in origin; most living things would see only darkness in that corner of the yard. But Tate could see clearly enough to know there weren't any big black cases out in the open.

"Right. But how big is it? I mean, is it like a suitcase? Or something like this?" He patted the trunk he was on.

Patrick gestured a size approximately two feet across then went back to digging.

Tate hopped down and started poking around. He found the search less interesting than the stuff he could already see. "If I'd known there was so much cool shit out here I'd have come sooner. Hey. Is this yours?"

He had discovered an old weight bench and a box of exercise equipment.

Patrick glanced over and nodded. "That and the mat on the floor."

"Mat?" Tate looked down and saw a gym mat next to the weight bench. "What's that for?"

"Wrestling."

Tate's smile dimpled his cheeks and lit his dark eyes with mischief. "Wrestling?"

"Yeah," said Pat. "Wrestling. College competitive."

"Were you any good?"

Patrick didn't like the amusement in Tate's tone. "Yeah. I was," he said, straightening from his search.

"Guess it wouldn't be hard to get good at rolling around on the ground," Tate said. He picked up one of the dumbbells and hefted it experimentally. He curled it a couple of times, which looked odd since he had the seeming of a child.

"Wrestling is more than 'rolling around on the ground'," said Patrick.

Tate dropped the dumbbell into the box. It landed with a heavy clank against its mates. "Not from what I've seen."

"Have you ever done it?"

"Well. No. But—"

Patrick stepped onto the mat, dusting his hands on the seat of his shorts. "But you're an expert anyway. Why don't you show me how it's done then?"

The man looked dead serious. Tate shrugged. "Okay. Doesn't seem fair, though, a grown man against a seven year old..."

"So age up and give it everything you've got."

"Really?"

"Really."

Tate grinned. "Okay."

He shifted and grew, assuming the form he'd had when he died. He kicked off his shoes and stepped onto the mat. Patrick slipped his shoes off as well.

"So… what do we do first?" Tate asked.

"You tell me."

Surprise was his best weapon so Tate thought fast. He spread his arms and lunged for Patrick, tackling him at the waist. The bigger man absorbed the impact with a slight wobble then he bent, hooked a hand under Tate's right thigh and lifted him off his feet. Tate tried to hold onto his waist but Pat dropped him without warning. He fell to the mat with the grace of a sack of flour.

Before he could figure out what to do next Patrick was on him. He wrenched Tate's arm into a submission hold. "Give?"

Tate didn't want to tap out but the more he struggled, the more his arm hurt. It would break before he could wrest free. "All right! I give!"

Pat released his arm and they both got back up. Tate was annoyed. He circled, knees bent for faster action, but Patrick circled the opposite way. He wasn't going to let Tate get behind him. So the boy opted for a less heroic move: He dove at Patrick's legs.

They hit the mat, Patrick landing on his rear and elbows. Tate scrambled quickly for Pat's arm, thinking to copy the earlier arm bar, but somehow the man reversed the hold. Tate found himself pinned face-down with his arm nearly pulled from its socket.

"Give!" Tate yelped.

He didn't wait for Patrick to get all the way to his feet this time. As soon as he was free Tate grabbed his opponent's foot and pulled hard. Surprised by the dirty play, Pat fell. Tate was on him instantly in an attempt to pin the larger man. He tried to channel the same strength he'd used to kill the athlete eight years ago.

It should have worked. But it didn't.

Patrick twisted and rolled free, a move that surprised them both. Pat had expected more resistance and Tate didn't expect Pat to be so strong. The man kicked Tate backward and hopped up, ready to defend himself. The teen lunged at him again, this time throwing an elbow at his ribs. Patrick blocked him, caught his outward arm and used it to flip the youth onto his back. He dropped to straddle Tate, grabbed his arms and pinned them against the mat above the teen's head.

"Come on, Mr. Expert," Patrick sneered. "You don't have to hold back. Show me how it's done."

Tate tried to break free but found no wiggle room. He didn't like that. "Let me up," he grunted.

Patrick didn't. "Stop being a pussy," he said. "Fight back!"

"I'm trying!" insisted Tate.

"Fight back or I'll kick your ass anyway!"

"I can't!" Tate yanked violently on his arms to no avail. "You're stronger than me now, fuck-wad!"

Patrick was sure he was being bull-shitted and it made him mad. He shifted his grip so that he had both of Tate's wrists pinned under one hand. Then he made a fist and pulled his arm back, ready to punch. He expected the teen to throw him off but Tate just cringed and braced for impact.

Seconds slid by. Abruptly Pat released his grip and got up. He stalked off the mat and over to the tiny window that overlooked the dark yard. Rain splashed the dirty glass. Tate pushed himself up to a sitting position and drew his knees to his chest. His wrists throbbed but it was his pride that hurt the most.

"What happened last week?"

The same question had been eating at Tate but he was surprised to hear Patrick say it out loud. The man was staring at the window with his back to the room but the words weren't rhetoric. Tate fiddled with the raggedy hole in his jeans, making the hole bigger.

"I d'know," said Tate. "Something weird."

Patrick looked back over his shoulder. "Do you remember what happened after lightning struck the house that night?"

"Yeah. The bed caught on fire."

"After that."

Tate thought about it for a moment. "I was like… 'Fuck! The bed's on fire!' then… I think… I don't know. I think maybe I passed out or something because the next thing I remember is waking up and it was morning."

Patrick nodded and looked at the window again. "You did pass out."

"You didn't?"

"No."

Tate turned, uncurling from his self-hug. "What happened to the fire?"

"I put it out," said Pat. He leaned closer to the glass, squinting out at the dark rain.

Tate grinned. "Lucky for the rest of us."

"Mm."

"That never happened before," Tate pointed out.

"No."

"Do you think it'd happen again?"

"I don't know," Pat said, distracted.

"What are you looking at?"

Patrick frowned. "I think there's someone in the yard."

Tate hopped to his feet and joined him at the window. "I don't see anybody."

"They went around the side."

"Want to go check it out?"

"Yeah," said Patrick after a moment. "We can look for the case later."

They left the shed. The wind thrashed the trees, adding the sound of rattling branches to the hiss of the rain. Around the side of the house they found the two ghost hunters just as the R. Franklin Murder fans, Fiona and Dallas, attacked them. Dallas grabbed and threw Albert into the bushes, camera and all. Fiona took the woman by the throat and slammed her against the house. They were invisible to the mortals which made the encounter especially harrowing for them.

"Oh. It's the copycat fucks," Tate said to Pat. Then, to the other ghosts: "Don't you sick bastards have anything better to do with your time? Harassing the living is so last year."

Fiona kept her victim pinned by the throat. Lisa clawed at her neck, choking, but there was nothing for her to grab hold of. Her feet kicked helplessly against the wall as she was held too high to touch the ground.

"You've been spending too much time with your faggot friends," said Fiona. "You're starting to sound just like them."

"At least I have friends," Tate responded with a smile that bordered manic. "All you've got is that asshole." He gestured to Dallas, who glowered at him. "And with friends like that…"

Albert struggled free from the bushes and fell to the ground. His camera was hanging down his back in two pieces. Seeing Lisa suspended, he scrambled over to her and tried to pull her down by her waist. Fiona didn't let go.

"Why don't you go fuck yourself," said Dallas. "These are ours."

"I've got a better idea," said Chad. He'd been drawn to the scene by Patrick's urging, a psychic sharing of impressions that all ghosts could perform when they wished. "Why don't you two go fuck each other and stop messing up the house."

Lisa was turning purple. She was losing strength and fighting unconsciousness.

"Lisa!" Albert hollered above a peal of thunder. Then he remembered his headset. He pressed the 'talk' button while keeping his other arm around Lisa's waist. He thought he was helping her. "Boss! Anybody! Help!"

The radio was dead. Dallas and Fiona had shorted out their communications before jumping the pair.

"Screw the house," said Fiona. "I want to see blood!"

"So kill him a few times," Tate suggested and jerked a thumb at Dallas.

"How 'bout I kill you a few times instead?" Dallas growled, punching a fist into his other hand. He took a step closer to the teen. Patrick mirrored the move, not quite interposing himself between the two but he made it clear without saying a word that Dallas wouldn't be dealing with Tate alone.

Chad made use of the distraction. He grabbed Fiona by the hair with both hands and pulled hard enough to make her shriek. She let go of Lisa but Chad didn't let go of Fiona. Dallas made a move in Chad's direction but Patrick was quicker. He threw an arm out and slammed it into the cultist's middle. Dallas doubled over, momentarily stunned.

Lisa slumped to the ground, barely conscious. Albert gathered her up, looking around with huge eyes though there was nothing for him to see. The ghostly brawl was invisible to his eyes and ears.

"Come on," he murmured to his fallen friend. He tried to pick her up but she was dead weight. "Come on, Lisa. We have to get out of here."

Fiona tried to get to her feet but Chad still had her hair and he used it like a leash to force her head down so he could drive his knee into her forehead. She dropped to the ground and Chad stomped on the back of her head over and over, breaking her skull. He kept stomping. He'd discovered how satisfying it could be to kill a ghost.

"Bitch!" he yelled as he drove his Italian leather loafer into her gray matter. "Don't. Mess. With. My. House!"

"You are one fucked up fairy," Dallas said in amazement. He vanished, leaving Fiona behind.

Fiona disappeared as soon as Chad stopped stomping on her, likewise retreating to her own space within the bowels of the house to recover. Being killed always took a toll on a spirit. Albert got a better grip on Lisa and helped her to limp toward the front of the house as fast as he could.

Impressed, Tate grinned at Chad. "Holy shit. You totally kicked her ass."

"Don't curse," said Chad automatically. Then he really saw Tate for the first time and frowned. "Why do you look like that?"

He was referring to Tate's age, of course, and his hair which was back to its grungy 90's state. Tate's smile vanished. He shrank back down to his younger form. He tried to fix his hair but he didn't have the same instinctive memory for the style that he disliked so much.

It was enough to appease Chad for the moment anyway. "Who were those people?"

Pat shrugged. "I don't know. They were out here prowling around the yard."

Chad checked his clothes to see if Fiona's blood had vanished with her. It had. Then he checked the side of the house. There were scuffs on the brick. "Idiots." He turned back to Patrick. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No. Not yet."

"Well, don't be all night about it. It's past Tate's bedtime." Chad glanced in the direction the paranormal investigators had staggered. "I'm going to make sure they leave. Then we'll deal with your hair, Tate."

"I wasn't trying to change it," Tate protested. "I was just—He said I could!" He looked at Patrick for support but got silence.

Chad favored the boy a stern look. "We'll discuss it later."

He left. Tate glared up at Patrick. "Thanks a lot."

"I didn't tell you to change your hair."

Thunder rumbled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning.

"I want a rematch," said Tate.

"Whenever you want to lose," Pat smirked. "Right now let's find that case."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

It was around this point that my Beta said she had to really start paying attention to what year stuff was happening in. I hope all the jumping around isn't too confusing. But if you find yourself wondering what year it is, you're in good company with the ghosts. Time just doesn't mean as much when you're dead.

Non-sequitur to anything: That same Beta told me about a thing called Gizoogle while I was editing this. She threw some of the dialog between the ghost hunters into the app. The inappropriate but very funny conversation it spit out earned this chapter the honorary title of 'Pimped Out Umbrella Hat'.

Check out my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 in my profile if you want to hear the soundtrack for this fanfic. You know you want to.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Bigger Picture

**2014 - late summer  
**

Despite being very smart, Tate had trouble in school when he'd been alive. He had wanted friends but parental neglect and interacting with ghosts from a young age had done nothing for his social skills. The other kids thought he was weird – and he was. He didn't know how to behave around other children. Nora Montgomery had been the closest thing he had to a friend apart from his disabled siblings and she knew even less about how to interact with children than he did.

Primary school was lonely but high school was where things had gotten really ugly. In gym he didn't like to change where the other boys could see and they made fun of him for suiting up in the toilet stall. The worst of the lot was a boy named Douglas. He called Tate names and said he was gay. Denying it only encouraged the other boys take up the insult.

In an attempt to prove them wrong Tate had asked Christa, the easiest girl at school, out on a date. But at the end of the evening when he had made his move he couldn't stop thinking about the unfortunate times he'd witnessed or overheard his mother having sex with her male friends. The encounter ended horribly and the next weekday Christa made sure the whole school knew about Tate's failure as a lover. Her tale only confirmed what the boys in gym had been saying. His classmates had been merciless after that.

He dabbled in drugs to cope with the mess that was his life. It only led to tragedy on top of tragedy. After his death a string of tenants had flickered in and out of Murder House. Their weird and broken relationships were of little interest to Tate beyond whether they could supply Nora Montgomery with the baby she craved.

And then Chad and Patrick moved in. Tate found them fascinating in the early days, when they were still in love and on good terms in the bedroom. Spying on them and flipping through their dirty magazines didn't bring thoughts of Constance to mind. Over time he got too invested in their lives. He took it personally when their relationship turned to shit. But even after he killed the gay couple Tate kept some of their magazines stashed in his attic treasure trove, for reference and as a memento of the relationship the men had once shared.

Then Violet entered Tate's world. She was the first person he'd met that he actually wanted to be intimate with, emotionally and sexually. But even with Violet, memories of his mother interfered. Only in the house, only after Violet was dead, did he have the strength to conquer the issue. They made love and it was the best thing he'd experienced.

Watching her move about the house now, unaware of his presence, was painful and wonderful at once. She was so close and yet so far from reach. She was with her ghostly baby brother when Tate felt Chad urging him to come to dinner. It was a part of playing family that Chad seemed to relish but Tate wasn't interested in at the moment. He looked like a child but he didn't feel like playing the part. He'd been doing it for a couple of weeks and the novelty had worn off.

He watched Violet put her brother in a pair of fuzzy pajamas and sing him a lullaby. Chad's urging came again. Tate ignored him till the end of the lullaby. Then he reluctantly left the pleasant scene and headed down to the dining room. Chad and Patrick were already seated when he entered and neither looked happy to see him.

"Where have you been?" said Chad. "I called you fifteen minutes ago."

Tate sat at the place that was laid out for him. "I'm here now."

He took a roll from his plate and was surprised when Chad plucked it from his hand and put it back. The dark-haired man then dragged the dish across the table where Tate couldn't reach it.

"I wasn't finished, young man," said Chad.

Tate suffered a flash of rage and grabbed his steak knife without thinking. Chad just arched a brow at the move but Patrick snatched the knife from his hand.

"When you're called," continued Chad as though there had been no interruption. "You answer. Do you understand?"

Tate sulked. There was a noticeable pause before he responded. "Yes."

"Let's make this the last time we have this conversation."

Chad pushed Tate's plate back to him. Tate glared at it. He hadn't been in the mood to play dinner before; he was even less so now. He shoved the plate away again, spilling peas and carrots on the table. The obstinate move was too much for Patrick. He stood with such force that he jostled the table, making the dishes rattle. He grabbed Tate by the arm and hauled him out of the chair. Jaw set and silent as death he dragged the boy out of the room.

Left alone, Chad propped his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. Roughly ten minutes later Patrick returned by himself. He looked even angrier than when he'd left.

"You might want to go talk to him," he said as he dropped into his chair. "I can't right now."

"Where is he?"

"In his room." Patrick shoved a forkful of potatoes in his mouth.

Chad nodded and went up to the room they'd designated as Tate's – the one across the hall from their own respective rooms. He expected to see the boy on the bed but when he entered the room Chad found him standing in the corner. His backside was bare and covered from hips to knees in dark purple welts.

Patrick wasn't using Tate as a punching bag any longer but it wasn't a secret between them that he employed corporal punishment to manage the boy's behavior. Chad had even asked him to once when Tate kept reverting back to his grunge-era hairstyle despite being repeatedly told not to. But what he saw before him went far beyond anything he could approve of.

"Time to get ready for bed," he said gruffly. "I'll be back in a few minutes to tuck you in."

He didn't wait for a response. He went back to the dining room, going there directly instead of taking the stairs like the living had to. Patrick was still eating.

"So. Do you think you beat him enough?" Chad said sarcastically. "I think you missed an inch or two."

Patrick frowned. "He needed to be punished. You saw how he was."

"There's a _major_ difference between punishing and abusing. I thought we-"

"Maybe you'd be happier if I'd let him stab you like he wanted to," Patrick said, slamming his fork down on the table.

"I had things under control."

"No. You didn't. You only thought you did."

Chad's lips tightened. "Dr. Spock would be so proud."

Patrick grabbed his roll and tore it in two. "Dr. Spock never had to deal with a kid like Tate Langdon."

Suddenly tired of the conversation, Chad picked up his wineglass and swallowed the contents in two large gulps. He set the glass down. "I'm going back up. Enjoy dinner." The 'fuck you' was obvious in his last words.

Leaving Pat to brood by himself, Chad went back to Tate's room. This time he found him in bed. He was in his loosest PJs and was lying on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest. His face was clean but had the puffy look of one who'd been crying.

"Time to tuck in," said Chad. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress and waited while Tate gingerly repositioned himself. Then he smoothed the blankets over the boy.

"He said I can't heal till tomorrow," Tate sniffled.

Chad was torn. He wanted to console the child he saw but he didn't want to jeopardize the unified authority he and Patrick had established. "You might want to keep that in mind the next time you decide to act out."

Tate didn't answer but a fresh round of tears began to flow silently down his cheeks. He put his head on the pillow and looked at the far wall. It was a pathetic sight that poked at Chad's soft spot. Reflexively he reached out and brushed the boy's hair back from his forehead.

"When I killed you, I didn't know you'd get stuck here." Tate said quietly. "I tried to- I tried to do it quick because you were already hurting so much. I didn't… want you to keep suffering. I guess I fucked that up too though."

Chad didn't know what to say to the confession. Like many ghosts he didn't remember anything about his actual death - just the before and the after. "What about Patrick..?"

Tate sniffled a soft, humorless laugh and rolled over to look up at Chad. "I was pissed at him 'cause he fucked everything up, sleeping around."

"That's not a good reason to shove a fireplace poker up someone's ass." It was the diplomatic thing to say but deep-down some small part of Chad was flattered.

"I didn't do it while he was still alive," said Tate.

"You shouldn't have done it at all," Chad said. He made himself stop fussing with the covers. "All right. Lights out."

"Wait."

Chad had already risen but he waited. "What?"

"I know this is totally stupid but… Can you sing me a lullaby?"

Another surprise Chad had no prepared response for. "Sure," he said after a moment.

He sat back down and, after a bit of thought, he sang softly. Tate shut his eyes to listen.

_Over in Killarney, many years ago_

_My mother sang this song to me in tones so sweet and low_

_Just a simple ditty in her good old Irish way_

_And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me this day_

_Toora loora loora_

_Toora loora li_

_Toora loora loora_

_Hush, now, don't you cry. _

_Toora loora loora_

_Toora loora li_

_Toora loora loora_

_It's an Irish lullaby._

At the end Chad got up and turned out the light. He paused in the doorway for a moment, puzzling over the entity that was Tate. Then he left and quietly shut the door.

**...**

**2018**

"Look at this," Andy breathed. She pushed open the door to the dining room and stood back to let Dave move inside with the camera.

The room held no furniture but was still impressive with its overhead beams and Batchelder tiled fireplace. But it wasn't the architecture that caught Andy's eye. Scattered all over the floor were photos, mostly black and white glossies.

"What are they?" asked Wade, following the other two ghost hunters. He waved his EMF meter over the photos but got no reading from them.

Andy crouched down and picked up a few, slowly looking them over. "I don't know. I think they're pictures from a photo shoot. Wait. No. It's more than one shoot – more than one person. Look."

She held up two different pictures: One was of a handsome young man who was giving the camera a broad smile. His look was contemporary whereas the next one she held up was of an attractive young woman roughly the same age but the paper was older and her look dated her back to the 1940s. Dave zoomed in for close-ups of each then he panned the camera over the mess of papers.

"Hey!" Wade exclaimed. He had joined Andy and was looking at a few of the body shots. "I know who this is. It's Elizabeth Short. Black Dahlia."

"But who's he?" asked Dave, motioning to the photo Andy held of the fellow.

Andy gathered a few of the photos of the young man and looked closer at them. She flipped them over and found some writing on the back of one. "Travis Wanderly, 2011."

The investigators looked at each other but no one found the name familiar. Wade pulled out his smartphone and did a quick search.

"Oh my God, guys. Do you know who this is?" he said. "It's the Boy Dahlia." He turned his phone so he could show everyone the news photo of the guy in the state he'd been in when his body had been found. Dave zoomed in on the image with the camera.

"But what are all of these photos doing here?" wondered Andy.

No one had an answer. But the ghosts that lingered nearby couldn't be happier.

"We did it!" crowed Travis. "We did it!"

Impulsively he grabbed Elizabeth in a hug that swept her off her feet. He swung her around happily which made the twins retch.

Just then Garrett came running up to the doorway, out of breath. "Guys! Something's happened to Lisa. She's hurt."

"What happened?" asked Andy.

Forgetting the photos, the group followed Garrett back down to the entry foyer where Nick and Eddie were engaged in serious discussion.

"What's going on?" Dave asked, camera still rolling.

Nick shook his head. "We're not sure but we think somebody - or something - attacked Lisa. She needs to go to the hospital."

A riot of questions followed but Nick waved them all off. "We're going to have to call it, guys. We'll figure out what happened later. Right now we need to get our gear and clear out."

Confused and disappointed, the ghost hunters collected their electronics. They exited the house just as the ambulance rolled up. Lisa was packed into the back on a stretcher and carried off. The investigators followed in their van.

"I sure hope they air it," Travis said as he and Beth watched from the window.

She smiled at him. "Even if they don't, they knew we were here."

Travis thought about that and then smiled brightly. "You're right. And we did get on film."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

_Ghosts on film!_ (sing it with me in your best Duran Duran fashion) _Ghosts on film!_

It's late and I've spent too much time staring at the computer screen. But I got episode 2 completely finished and have already started on episode 3 and wanted to celebrate it by posting another chapter here. There's one more chapter in episode 1 so brace yourself for the Climax.

Check out my **Playlist** for Season 1-point-5 in my profile. It's the stuff I listen to while I'm writing AHS - the soundtrack to the show that's playing in my head.


	8. Chapter 8 - Climax

**2018**

"Was that an ambulance?" Constance asked Father Jeremiah.

He had been watching the street from the front room window when she came downstairs. It was late; she was dressed in a long flowing nightgown with a sheer robe thrown over it. It flattered her figure but her hair was a mess.

"I'm not sure," he said. "There weren't any sirens. Just flashing lights. I think it was just the power people."

Constance quit the stairs and headed for the front door, one hand clutching her robe closed at her collarbone. She took an umbrella from the holder by the door.

"Where are you going?" the priest asked.

Constance paused with her free hand on the knob. "I'm goin' to see if our neighbors are all right."

"Let me," volunteered Jeremiah. He didn't want to go out in the rainy night but he wanted her to even less.

"No. You stay here in case Michael wakes up." She threw on a smile. "I'll only be a minute."

"Really, Constance—"

She put a reassuring hand on his arm and smiled. "A little rain won't melt me." She gave him a pat then let herself out.

The rain was colder than she had counted on. She was shivering by the time she reached the back door of the old Victorian. She found the key and unlocked the back door. The interior of the house was just as cold and dark as the outside. Constance hugged herself for warmth.

"Tate?" she called. "Tate, honey. It's mama."

She looked around but her son didn't appear. She moved deeper into the house. The cold was seeping into her joints and slowing her down but she wanted to see her boy. He would tell her what had happened.

"Tate. Why was that ambulance here?"

Even when they were on the worst of terms after his death Tate had always come when she called. The fact that he wasn't responding worried her. Why wasn't he answering? Where was he? She went to the front entryway and peeked up the stairs but the whole place was so dark, she couldn't see anything. Thunder rumbled overhead.

"Tate! Answer me! Did you do somethin' to somebody?"

Still there was no response. By now Constance thought that some of the other spirits in the house would have taken notice of her presence and come to investigate but the whole place felt deserted.

"Travis?"

She took a step toward the stairs and the whole world swayed. She tried to catch her balance but it was like trying to stand on the deck of a ship that was capsizing. She stumbled forward into the banister and collided with the wooden post. It hurt but she hardly noticed. The floor rippled and heaved. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. She could hear dogs barking and car alarms going off outside. The floor bucked more violently.

It was an earthquake.

The house groaned as the wild shaking continued. Constance tried to get to the front door but she couldn't stay on her feet. She fell halfway to the door and knocked her head against the hardwood parquet tiles. Dazed, she started to crawl but stopped when she heard a strange sound above: The low-pitched groan of wood splintering.

She looked up just in time to see a support beam come tumbling down at her. Her scream was crushed to silence.

...

Patrick stirred and lifted his head. He felt hung over; weak. Outside the shed the rain continued to pour, beating hard on the dirty little window.

"Pat!" Tate, in his teen form, was crouched near his shoulder. "I thought you were dead!"

"I am dead," grouched Patrick.

"No," said Tate. "I mean. There was a huge earthquake and then you fell over and you didn't move or anything. You wouldn't wake up."

Patrick pushed himself up off the floor but made it only to a sitting position. He was too weak to stand. "Same thing happened to you when the lightning hit," he said, both to defend himself and to put things into perspective. He flexed his arms, bothered by the persistent weakness. "Why am I so drained?"

"Pat, there's something out there."

Patrick squinted at Tate. He looked rattled. "Out where? In the yard?"

"Yeah," said Tate. "I think something happened during the quake."

"Go get Chad," said Patrick.

Tate's eyes widened. "I'm not going out there."

The refusal irritated Patrick but he'd never seen the kid so spooked. "What's out there?"

"Something fucked up. It sounds… weird. Like. I don't know. Weird."

"That's real descriptive," said Patrick, expression souring.

"Let's just phase back to the house, okay?"

Patrick looked from Tate to the dark window and back again. "Fine. Head to my room. We'll call him from there."

Tate nodded and vanished. The sound of the storm took over but under the rattle of rain Patrick could hear something else. He strained to make out what it was but the sound was too faint and indistinct. It was a crunchy sort of dragging noise, like gravel in a blender, mixed with a slurping metallic whine that rose and fell like an obscene heartbeat. It wasn't getting any closer but it wasn't going away either.

Patrick grabbed the case they'd been searching for and willed himself out of the shed.

...

Next door, Jeremiah put on his raincoat.

"Stay here," he ordered Michael. The earthquake had wakened the boy who was now seated in the doorway between the kitchen and front room. "Stay right there in that spot until I get back."

"I want to come with you!"

"No. It's safer here," said Father Jeremiah. "I'll be right back. I just have to go check on Mama Constance."

Michael started to cry and Jeremiah went over to him, squatting so he could make direct eye contact. "I need you to stay here because earthquakes sometimes break things. If you're out there, I'll have to keep myself _and _you safe. I will be right back, I promise."

Michael hugged his stuffed dog toy and nodded.

"Stay right here," Jeremiah repeated.

The boy nodded again. He was still crying but quietly now.

It was the best the priest could hope for under the circumstances. He pulled up the hood of his coat and stepped outside, locking the door behind him. The rain was coming down in sheets and a thick fog had settled. The power was out all along the street, not just at their house. In the distance sirens screamed. Bowing into the wind, Jeremiah ran to the house next door. The porch provided some shelter. He tried the bell but it had been taken out with the lights so he knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. He pounded his fist against the hard wood door and was surprised when it swung open with a mournful creak. Inside all was darkness.

"Hello?" he called into the black.

A soft groan answered from somewhere nearby, on the floor. Squinting into the dimness he could make out something there but it was impossible to tell what. He decided to break social convention and let himself in. He fished his keychain flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on. In the bluish LED light he could see one of the support beams had fallen from the ceiling and beneath it…

"Constance!" Jeremiah hurried to the heap of debris. The woman was pinned under the beam. Blood streaked her face at her nose and mouth. She was breathing but she was very badly hurt.

"Patrick! Chad! Ethan!" he shouted into the darkness. "Is anyone here? Constance is hurt!"

There was no answer. Jeremiah grabbed the beam and shoved it off the woman. Then, as gently as he could, he lifted her. She was light and limp but when he stepped out of the house she opened her eyes.

"No…" she said weakly. "Don't… don't take me… out…"

Not comprehending, Father Jeremiah said, "It's okay, Constance. I'm here. We'll get you to the hospital."

"No…" she said but she was too far gone to muster any strength. Tears welled up and mingled with the blood and dust on her face. "No…"

He carried her through the driving rain back to her home where he kicked the front door open. He placed her on the sofa in the sitting room. Michael, seeing her, left the kitchen doorway and ran to her side.

"Mama Constance!" he squealed, upset by the sight of her injuries. "Mama Constance!"

"Stay back," Jeremiah said to him. Things were too stressful to bother with being nice. "I'm calling for help."

He dashed to the kitchen where his cellphone sat on the counter, plugged into a charger that wasn't feeding it any electricity. He yanked the cord out and dialed 911. He got a recorded message that told him all lines were busy. Of course they would be, with the earthquake. It had been a big one. There would be emergencies all over the city.

He went back into the sitting room with the phone pressed to his ear. Michael was crying harder than before as he pet Constance's limp hand.

"Don't die, Mama Constance," the boy pleaded. "I need you!"

Jeremiah paced and waited for a 911 dispatcher to answer. When one finally did, it was too late. Constance Langdon was dead.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Thus ends Episode 1 of American Horror Story season 1-point-5. If you want some end credits music, check out the cover Nine Inch Nails did of "Dead Souls". Skip the first minute for best effect.

This episode ranked "H.P. Lovecraft" on the _I Write Like_... website.

Episode 2 is finished and ready to roll. Episode 3 is already 1/3 written now as well. I feel obligated to warn you that the next episode is... well. Let's just stick with the description: It's written for the avid fan, not the faint of heart.

So tune in next week for more fear and freakiness in **Murder House Revisited, Episode 2: Sins of the Fathers**.


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